Lady of the Shades (8 page)

Joe is behind the wheel. He’s moodier than usual, hasn’t said much. Finally, once we’ve wound up the scouting mission and have crossed the river, he says, ‘Do you think
you can use any of those places in the book?’

‘Probably. I like the Elephant and Castle. Any idea where the name comes from?’ Joe grunts negatively and takes a sharp, aggressive left turn. I study him curiously.
‘How’s your mother?’ I ask.

‘Fine.’

‘And work?’

‘Same old.’ He looks across at me. ‘What’s with the questions?’

‘You seem out of sorts.’

He grunts again, then slows and finds a place to pull over. For a couple of minutes he doesn’t say anything, and nor do I. In the end, he sighs. ‘You’re gonna hate me. I
shouldn’t say anything. I wasn’t going to and I still don’t know if I should.’

‘What’s up, Joe?’ I ask, worried now.

‘I wasn’t prying,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t poking my nose in. I just . . . You remember I told you I’d been asking my friends about Deleena?’

That wasn’t what I’d been anticipating. I thought he’d been digging around in my past. I let out my breath and nod, relieved.

‘I went to see Shar’s boyfriend last night,’ Joe says. ‘He has an old VCR that was on the fritz. I asked Shar about Deleena. I was curious.’

‘Uh-huh.’ I’m not sure what’s coming, but at least it has nothing to do with my past.

Joe hesitates, then comes out with it. ‘Shar doesn’t know her.’

I digest the information, then seek clarification. ‘Shar doesn’t know Deleena?’

‘She doesn’t have a Deleena Emerson on her books. None of her clients even has a name
like
Deleena Emerson.’

‘Did you describe Deleena to her? Maybe she uses another name when –’

‘How could I describe her?’ he cuts in. ‘I’ve never seen her.’

‘Oh. Right.’ I stare at the dashboard, bewildered.

‘I should have kept my mouth shut,’ Joe mumbles.

‘No. You were right to tell me.’

‘What will . . . ?’

‘Please. No questions. Just leave it with me.’

‘OK.’ He taps the steering wheel. ‘You want to hang out here a while or go back to the hotel?’

‘Back to the hotel.’ I smile humourlessly. ‘I’ve got a date to prepare for.’

We meet in a pizza house. Deleena is a woman of varied tastes. A Michelin-starred restaurant one night, Burger King the next. I order a ham and mushroom pizza, Deleena opts for
pepperoni. A bottle of house white.

I’ve been keeping conversation to a minimum. Deleena senses something wrong but pretends that all is normal. She tells me about her day at work and how much she enjoyed last night –
we went to a beer festival and drank from massive wooden pitchers – and makes suggestions for tomorrow. I respond with sniffs and shrugs, waiting for her to get frustrated and force the
issue.

‘OK,’ she finally says, laying down her knife and fork. ‘What have I done?’

I finish the slice of pizza I was working on and wash it down with a mouthful of wine before replying. ‘I know that you’ve been lying to me.’ Deleena stiffens but says nothing.
‘Shar doesn’t know you. You’re not one of her clients.’

She rocks forwards and backwards, face neutral, hands on the table, fingers at rest. ‘You can leave now if you want,’ she offers. ‘I’ll take care of the bill.’

‘I’m going nowhere until you explain.’

‘Why bother?’ she says. ‘If I’ve lied once, I’ll probably lie to you again. The wise thing would be to walk away, delete my number from your phone and hang up if
you ever hear from me again.’

‘I thought about that. A week ago I might have. But now . . . ’ I want to reach across and shake answers from her, but I settle for a glare. ‘Is Deleena even your real
name?’

‘No,’ she says coolly. ‘It’s Andeanna. I
am
a client of Shar’s — that much is true. Check with her. She’ll recognize the name this
time.’

‘Why feed me an alias?’

‘I’m sure you can guess. It’s not especially complicated.’

‘You’re married?’ I ask, and she nods. That simple gesture almost drives me from the table and out of her life. Only her expression of utter misery holds me. ‘Do you love
him?’

‘Christ, Ed!’ She laughs blackly.

‘Do you love
me
?’

She’s shaking now. Can’t look me in the eye. Slides her hands under the table so I can’t see them trembling. ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ she croaks.
‘There are things you don’t know.’

‘So tell me.’

She raises her head. Tears are welling in her eyes. I ignore them and focus on her lips, reading the words as they form, alert for lies. ‘You remember that man we ran into? Bond
Gardiner?’

‘He’s your husband?’

‘No. Emerson is my maiden name. My married name is Menderes. My husband is –’

‘Mikis Menderes,’ I interrupt, one jump ahead of her.

She blinks, taken aback. ‘You know him?’

‘Mikis Menderes, aka the Turk.’

‘You know who he is?
What
he is?’

‘I’ve read about him in the papers,’ I lie

‘He makes the papers in the States?’ she frowns.

‘No,’ I correct myself, quickly tweaking my story. ‘I read about him here, on one of my previous trips to the UK.’

‘Then you know why I’ve been so afraid to get close to you,’ she says. ‘Why my heart beat with terror the first time we kissed. Why I didn’t want to let things go
any further. You know why you should walk away and never look back. Because if Mikis finds out about us . . . if he even suspects . . . ’

She can’t continue, and I can’t think of anything to get her started again. We sit, staring at one another, until a waiter checks to see if we’re finished. I nod, and he asks
if we’d like anything for dessert. ‘No thank you,’ I mumble, then pay up and escort Deleena –
Andeanna
, Mrs Menderes, wife of one of London’s most notorious
gangsters – outside into the uncertainty of the sultry, menacing night.

PART TWO

SIX

It’s amazing how quickly one’s impression of a place can change. Last week I was in love with London, its architecture and layout, its people, its aura. Now the
buildings look old and crumbling. The people have grey, pinched faces. It feels like a city of the lost.

Three days have passed. No word from
Andeanna
. I still can’t accustom myself to her new name. I should be working on forgetting both, wiping them from my memory. Deleena,
Andeanna, what’s the difference? She’s poison no matter what she calls herself. A married woman who lied. Worse, a married gangster’s woman. What if the Turk’s henchman had
seen us that night in the restaurant? What if he’d caught us kissing and run to tell his boss?

I’m furious that she sucked me in like that. I can protect myself when I have to. Mikis Menderes doesn’t frighten me. But unaware of the risk, I would have been taken by surprise and
left to the mercy of a man who had no cause to show me any.

She should have told me. If she’d been married to an ordinary guy, I might have been able to accept the lie. But my life was on the line and I never knew. She treated me with contempt and
I don’t want anything to do with a woman who plays games like that. I should blow this city, set the book elsewhere, turn my back on London without a farewell glance.

Except . . .

I feel her lips on mine every time I close my eyes. I haven’t fallen in love often in my life, but whenever I have, I’ve fallen hard. If I could be logical about it, I’d take
the view that I don’t know Andeanna well enough to claim that I love her. But I know what I feel. She has me hooked. How can I leave her behind when my heart aches with every step I take
without her?

Two more days pass. My ghosts are having a whale of a time. My misery has given them a new lease of life, so to speak. They circle me like sharks, darting at me when I least
expect it, clawing at my face with their insubstantial fingers, mocking me, mutely urging me to end it all, to join them in their shady realm and take what I have coming for what I did in the
past.

I tried immersing myself in the book, but I couldn’t concentrate, and not just because of the hyperactive spirits. I’d be sitting over a pile of notes with Joe – he’s
been compassionately tight-lipped, never mentioning Deleena – and my mind would wander. I’d think how like a ghost she’s become, gone from my life, never to return, irreclaimable,
uncontactable. Except she
isn’t
dead and she
can
be tracked down. I could take her in my arms again and . . .

I told Joe I needed a few days to myself. He said to ring when I felt like it and not to spare a thought for him in the meantime. I took to the countryside, chose a direction at random and drove
west, into territory that was all virgin to me — I’ve rarely been outside London on any of my trips to the UK. It was difficult driving – the ghosts kept wrapping themselves in
front of my eyes, obscuring my vision – but having to focus on the road helped take my mind off my troubles. I wound up in far-flung Devon, which I spent yesterday exploring, clambering over
moors, pushing myself physically, ignoring my ghosts, trying to forget about Andeanna.

I tossed and turned in the back of my rented car the first night, the ghosts writhing around me, half in and half out of the car’s structure. Then I booked into a cottage that has been
converted into a B&B. I slept sweetly, exhausted after my hard day, and didn’t dream of Andeanna. There was even a moment when I woke when she wasn’t in my thoughts. Then the
memories returned. I groaned, rolled over and started planning another day of harsh, demanding exercise.

That was when my phone rang. I wasn’t going to answer, but nerves got the better of me and I lunged for it, only to discover it wasn’t Andeanna. It was Jonathan Wood, my agent. He
was in London and wanted to arrange some meetings with prospective publishers.
Soul Vultures
is being reprinted here, and a couple of editors have been in touch, wanting to know what
I’m working on next. I asked to be excused from the negotiations, but Jonathan was adamant. He doesn’t get over to England often (he’s in town drumming up business for another of
his clients) and he said it would be crazy to miss such a golden opportunity.

Returning to London was the last thing I wanted, but professional hunger got the better of me. I was loath to waste all those years of hard work, especially over a woman who would probably laugh
with vixen delight if she found out how deeply she’d cut me. ‘OK,’ I sighed. ‘Let’s meet this evening and you can tell me more about it.’

So I’m back. Evening has come and gone. I met Jonathan in the bar of his hotel, and we passed a pleasant few hours discussing the re-release of
Soul Vultures
, and my new work,
which I told him would be called
Pillars of Fire
or
Spirit of the Fire
. I promised to toss together a summary to present to the editors in the morning.

The ghosts have been sluggish since I got back. They feed on negative energy. When my mood improved – when work distracted me from my dark thoughts – they lost a lot of their power
and had to settle back into their familiar holding pattern.

I rang Joe on my way back to the Royal Munster but got his voicemail. I left a message, then settled down to work. Joe calls an hour later when I’m in the middle of a wild oasis of notes.
I growl into the mouthpiece, ‘Get over here. I need you.’

‘Is this about the book or . . . ?’ he asks diplomatically.

‘The book.’

‘I’ll be with you in a flash.’

I tell Joe about my morning meetings. He wants to come with me, but I say that isn’t a good idea. I haven’t told Jonathan about my partner and I’m not sure how he’ll
react. The longer we wait, the fewer objections he can make. I explain all this to Joe, but I can see he’s disappointed. I’ll make it up to him later, take him on tour with me, let him
sit in on interviews, stuff like that.

We work until four in the morning, fine-tuning our mass of ideas, putting them in order, searching for a nice, neat way to sum up the plot. Finally I groan, push the pile of notes away and hold
up the three-page plot outline, the fruit of all our endeavours, as if it was the Holy Grail.

‘What about typing it up?’ Joe asks.

‘Screw that.’ I stand and yawn. ‘It’ll do as it is.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ Rubbing my eyelids, I ask Joe if he wants to sleep on the couch instead of making the long trek home.

‘That’s OK,’ he says. ‘I’ll head back to the flat. I find it hard to sleep if I’m not in my own bed. But do you mind if I treat myself to a
nightcap?’

‘Help yourself,’ I tell him, heading for the bedroom. ‘But if you get arrested for drink-driving, don’t blame me.’

In the morning I find that all the notes have been tidied away and nine sheets of A4 paper rest on top of my laptop — the word-processed plot outline and two copies. There’s a note
from Joe.
Thought we should type it up all the same. Hope you don’t mind. Let me know how you get on. Good luck!!!

The meetings go well. Both editors claim to be fans of my previous work, are intrigued by the plot of the new book and want to see more. I had American editors on my other
books, but Jonathan thinks I should go with a Brit this time, seeing as how the story is set in London. He claps my back just before we part, tells me this could be the start of something big, then
heads for the airport to catch a flight to France, leaving me behind to dream.

I spend the next week coming up with characters and exploring plot angles. I try not to think about Andeanna, but it’s hard. I can forget her for brief spells but she’s never far
from my thoughts. All it takes is a moment of quiet reflection or a glimpse of an attractive woman and I’m off, recalling the lines of her face, the curves of her body, the sparkle of her
eyes. I wish I wasn’t this weak, this open, but it’s an old flaw of mine.

Joe thinks I should call her. I told him the truth a few days ago, though I didn’t mention that she was married to a gangster. At first he agreed that I’d done the right thing giving
her the elbow, but now he’s not sure. He says I’m tearing myself apart agonizing over her.