Bad Boys of London: The Complete GYPSY HEROES Collection (33 page)

I
make it out of the restaurant and drive Rob back to his flat. Then I get back to the office and try hard to be interested in a piece of gossip the receptionist has for me. I smile and nod at my colleagues as they walk by. I go to my floor and get myself a mug of coffee. Sitting at my desk, I put away the file marked ‘Dominic Eden’, and call my mother. She’s a terrible worrier, and she is quietly relieved to hear from me. I tell her I will pick her up at twelve tomorrow. With that arrangement made, I ask after my father.

My mother drops her voice to a whisper. ‘I think he’s feeling a bit down, love. His prostate is playing up. It keeps him awake at night.’

‘Let’s all do lunch tomorrow,’ I suggest brightly.

She seems pleased with the idea.

Almost as soon as I ring off, Anna’s call comes through. Even by the tone of her voice, I can tell that her meeting went badly.

‘I think I’m going to be fired,’ she wails.

‘They’d be mad to fire you. You’re the best salesperson they have,’ I say reassuringly. And that’s no lie, either. Anna can close a deal like no one else I know.

‘I kinda fucked up, Ella. I slept with my sales manager.’

‘What?’ I exclaim, shocked. ‘Tony’s disgusting!’

‘I was drunk,’ she says glumly.

‘Oh my God! And he’s married as well.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ she says sourly.

‘When did this happen?’

‘Last Friday.’

‘And you’re just telling me now?’

‘It meant nothing. I was, like, really drunk,’ she explains. 

‘Oh, Anna.’

‘I’d already put it behind me, but now he’s acting all weird. I think he’s trying to get rid of me.’

Note to self: NEVER mix business with pleasure. Oh, DAMN. 

After my conversation with Anna, I have a salmon and cucumber sandwich and some dark chocolate for lunch. That afternoon I get through an impressive pile of paperwork, answer the phone, and liaise with my workmates, but all the time my insides are clenched, and between my legs my cunt is fat with anticipation.

Before the clock strikes five, I am already crossing the reception concourse. Stepping outside into the hot evening, I walk down to the Underground station and take the Tube back to my apartment building. Ignoring the slow, smelly lift, I run up the three flights of stairs and let myself into my matchbox-sized, one bedroom flat. Yeah, it’s tiny, but it’s all mine—well, at least as long as I pay my rent.

I run to the mirror and look in it.

Unbelievable.

I still look the same. I pulled it off. No one knew.

My living room is west facing and it’s like a sauna in my home, so I quickly open all the windows, switch on the fans and go into my bedroom. Even though it’s very small, I’ve made it look pretty and cozy with blue and white vertical stripe wallpaper, an old-fashioned chrome bed and a painted French dressing table. It’s my sanctuary. So far only one man has been in here, but he turned out to be a giant jerk. I quickly banish all thoughts of him and open more windows. The sounds from the street below float up as I start stripping the bed. I put on fresh sheets and stuff the soiled ones into the washing machine. I don’t turn the machine on, because I don’t want to come home to a crumpled wet mess.

I tidy up, dust all the surfaces and run the vacuum cleaner quickly around the place. By now I’m hot and sweaty. I glance at the clock: five past six. I stick a green apple scented refill into the plug-in air freshener and go into the bathroom. There I do what I’ve not done in months.

I trim down my bush and shave my legs. No nicks. Yay! I step into the shower and wash my hair. With a towel wrapped around my head and body, I come back into the bedroom and pad over to my closet.

It’s been a long time since I cared this much about looking good. There are all kinds of options I can go for: sexy, or casual, or elegant, or professional. In the end I decide to go for subtle. A black lace shirt that my mother bought for my birthday teamed with a red pencil skirt that I got in a seventy percent off sale. I guess there’s not too much demand for red pencil skirts. But the nice thing about the skirt is the slit up the back. Modest, but an invitation all the same.

You’re not on a date, I tell myself even as I’m slipping into little bits of sexy underwear. Standing in my bra and panties, I dry my hair and, brushing it back, draw on a black velvet band. I go for smoky eyes and nude lip gloss. My cheeks are already tinged with pink so I skip the blusher.

From the back of my closet I take out my most extravagant purchase yet. I saved up for weeks to buy them. I open the box and take out my big investment: a pair of zebra patterned court shoes with red heels almost the same color as my skirt. I step into them and … they are worth every penny.

Feeling like a million dollars, I dab on perfume and stand in front of the mirror on the closet door. I turn around and look at the back view.

‘Not too bad,’ I reassure myself.

I stuff my lip gloss, a twenty-pound note just in case it gets nasty and I need to get a taxi home, and a credit card into my evening purse. With one last look at my appearance, I go into the living room. It smells of apples. Satisfied that everything looks the way it should, I glance at the time.

I still have ten minutes to kill.

Until this moment all the activity has kept me going and in control. Now I’m suddenly a bundle of nerves. I feel as if I’m about to walk into an exam hall to take a test that I’m totally unprepared for. I walk into my kitchen and take a bottle of vodka out of my fridge. I pour two fingers worth of alcohol into a glass and down it neat into my empty stomach. It burns my throat, but the alcohol is good. Its warmth radiates quickly through me, warming my body, stirring my blood. I switch on the TV for some noise, and try to concentrate on the sounds and pictures on the screen.

The doorbell makes me jump like a startled cat at two minutes to seven.

The man is punctual!

I smooth my skirt and, taking a deep breath, open the door. And … oh wow! If he looked good before, he is devastatingly dashing now in a snowy white silk shirt that contrasts amazingly with his tanned skin, a beautifully cut gunmetal gray evening suit, and black shoes polished to a mirror shine. Is that jaw for real? Freshly shaved, his jaw seems to me to have been chiseled to perfection by the gods themselves. As Anna would say, ‘Gurllll! I’ma gonna have to call you back.’

‘Hi,’ I say awkwardly.

Silently, he holds out what looks like a box of very expensive, handmade chocolates. Wow, I certainly didn’t expect that from a twenty-eight-year-old gypsy tax dodger. I take the box and finger the dark blue ribbon.

‘How … courtly. Thank you,’ I say softly. My mother used to say any charm offensive that begins with handmade chocolates is bound to take effect eventually. I wonder when eventually will be.

He shrugs, his hot blue eyes pouring over me, taking in my face, my hairband, my lace top, my red skirt, and resting a shade longer on my zebra shoes.

He brings his eyes back to my face. ‘Are you ready to go?’

‘Yes,’ I say, taking a step back to leave the box of chocolates on the little table by the door. I turn around to find his eyes scanning the interior of my tiny flat. When his gaze meets mine it is polite and deliberately neutral.

Stepping out, I close the door and we walk down the corridor to the lift without any conversation. He presses the button and still there are no words exchanged. His silence is unnerving, and I feel compelled to break it before the lift comes.

‘Where are we going?’

He glances sideways at me. ‘The Rubik’s Cube.’

The lift doors open and we step in. The smell of piss hits me hard. ‘The Rubik’s Cube? It’s not one of yours, is it?’

He looks at me sardonically. ‘Take you to one of mine and have you accuse me of enjoying untaxed perks?’

‘Right,’ I say, as the lift slowly and jerkily bears us down.

His car, a model I recognize immediately as it’s my father’s dream car, is a brand new Maserati GranCabrio Sport bearing a price ticket of over a hundred thousand pounds. It’s parked on double yellow lines right outside the building entrance.

‘This road’s notorious for parking tickets,’ I warn, my eyes skimming the muscular lines of the sleek black machine.

‘I know,’ he says carelessly.

He unlocks the car remotely and opens the passenger door for me. I slip in and he shuts it. Alone in the luxurious space, I inhale deeply the smell of leather and immerse myself in the high-tech beauty and fabulous comfort of the interior. I stroke the door handle. Wow! I’ve never been in such a car. The dashboard, door and seats are all in soft burgundy leather with stitching in a matching color.

He slides into the driver’s seat, retracts the roof, pushes a little button next to the column marked ‘Sport’, and what must be the loudest car in the world snarls, roars and with a sonic boom comes to life.

He turns to me. ‘Ready?’

‘Should I be scared?’

‘Nah, you’ll love it.’

I’d planned to play it cool, but a wild, unintended whoop escapes my thick wall of disapproval of him and ill-gotten wealth of all kinds when he hits the gas pedal, and the car takes off so suddenly it throws me back against the seat.

When I first saw the roof disappearing from above my head, I did worry about what kind of mess my hair would be in by the time we arrived at the restaurant, but the car has been built in such a way that my hair remains impressively unruffled. And the V8 engine is so brilliantly noisy with pops and bangs on the overrun that there’s no need for conversation at all as we speed down empty back roads.

The noise also means that we’re constantly the center of attention everywhere we go. It’s a lovely summer evening and people are sitting outside restaurants, pubs and bars eating and drinking—so that makes for a lot of attention. And when we make a traffic light stop, excited tourists lift their phones and film the car.

He drives up to the Rubik’s Cube’s pillared entrance, gets out, and opens my door. Putting his hand lightly on the small of my back, he throws the keys to the parking jockey who catches them neatly. Even though his hand is barely touching me, I’m conscious of it as he guides me up the glossy granite steps. The imposing entrance has an air of intimidation about it, as if one runs the risk of being challenged by the staff with the question, ‘Are you rich enough to be here?’ The answer to which in my case is clearly no.

But apparently Dom is.

The doormen are impressively enthusiastic in their welcome, and it’s instantly obvious that not only is he a regular here, but he must also be a tipper of massive proportions.

The restaurant is on the first floor, and we climb a sweeping, black-carpeted staircase. Upstairs, the interior of the restaurant is breathtakingly sumptuous with über-classy black and white velvet walls and huge arrangements of lush, exotic flowers at the front desk and in the middle of the restaurant. All the chair frames are made of some matt silver metal and the thickly padded seats and backs are covered in multicolored velour: orange, gold, red, green, blue, brown.

We’re shown to what seems to be the best table in the place: an elevated platform next to a super-modern cascade fountain piece. Waiters swarm around our table pulling out chairs, bowing, scraping, smiling, nodding. Next to me, a waiter lifts the napkin from the charger plate, gently unfolds it, and courteously lays it across my lap. Bemused, I thank him. He nods solemnly in acknowledgment.

Another jacketed man flourishes menus at us. A complimentary, pink-tinged champagne cocktail appears magically on my right, but I notice that a glass of amber liquid is being offered to Dom. A young man of Middle Eastern descent smiles sweetly when I thank him.

A man oozing obsequiousness in a black suit materializes at Dom’s elbow. The display of excessive servitude is quite frankly startling, but Dom seems accustomed to it.

‘Would you like me to choose the wines to complement the dishes, Mr. Eden?’ the man asks ingratiatingly. Ah, a sommelier. Well, well, I’ve never been to a restaurant that was swanky enough to hire a sommelier!

‘Pair them with the lady’s meal,’ Dom says. ‘And just my usual.’

‘Very good, sir,’ he says with a nod and a quick glance in my direction, and exits the scene.

I turn my attention to the menu. The combinations of ingredients are unusual and fascinating. I look up once and Dom is watching me. For a moment we stare at each other then I feel myself start to color and have to drop my eyes back to the menu. When Dom lays his menu down I do the same. Almost instantly the headwaiter is at my side. We place our orders and he diplomatically compliments us on our excellent choices.

A small plate of beautifully colorful miniature amuse-bouches is placed in the middle of the table. The waiter who brought it explains what the little titbits are, but his French accent is so thick I catch only the words ‘black radish’, ‘fromage frais’ and ‘steamed mussels with pickle and Guinness’. He disappears as silently as he had arrived.

I pick up one of the ceramic tasting spoons holding a little cube made from three brightly colored, unrecognizable ingredients, sitting in a pool of soy sauce, and slip it into my mouth. There’s a delicate burst from the green base of avocado, the rich meaty taste of tuna tartare and a complete texture and taste change with the rice crispies and deep fried shallots on the top.

‘Good?’ Dom asks.

‘Very,’ I reply sincerely.

He pops one of the smoked salmon shells between his lips and suddenly I find myself hungrily watching his incredibly sexy mouth. I drag my gaze away quickly and cast it around the opulent room.

If his intention is to dazzle me then yes, I’m dazzled—the suit, the car, the impossible to miss deference of the waiting staff toward him, the splendor of the restaurant, the five star excellence of the food—but it doesn’t mean a damn thing.

That strange look we shared in his empty restaurant is worth more to me than one thousand nights in the lap of unrivaled luxury. I know that moment is gone forever. The man in front of me is wearing a mask and he has no intention of ever letting me see underneath the mask again.