Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(67)

Bish had known that, from reading one of Sarraf’s interviews.

“My parents met in Alexandria in the sixties. My mother was said to be amazingly beautiful. By the time she had me she’d let herself go, but my uncle Joseph always said that if my father hadn’t married her, one of the other brothers would have.

“When they moved here in the late sixties, my father was determined to be accepted by everyone, and refused to belong to the Arab packs, as he liked to call them. Whereas my mother’s whole identity revolved around the community. She worked like a dog to get Noor into a private school, to compete with the other Arab mothers who were just as ambitious for their smart daughters. But my father couldn’t seem to catch a break. His obsession with fitting in changed him and I got to experience the changed man, not the man he was when my mother met him. He was embarrassed that my mother wore the hijab, and he believed that her being a Muslim held them back socially. They fought a lot. Some women feel strongly about being forced to wear the hijab, and my mother felt strongly about being forced not to wear it.”

“And yet your sister didn’t wear one?”

“Noor felt that too many women wore it because they had to rather than wanted to. She and my mother agreed to disagree. They did that a lot over culture and religion, but they loved each other.”

Bish pulled up in front of Waterloo Station. He retrieved his wallet from the glove box, searching for his Oyster card.

“You’ve got a forty-eight-hour visa,” he said. “If you violate the rules you’ll be back behind bars and on your own.”

Sarraf was at first speechless. Then: “I get to stay for two days?”

“I want to know the moment Violette makes contact,” Bish said.

“She won’t know I’m here.” Sarraf cleared his voice of emotion.

“Then you need to find a way to let her know.”

The two-day visa was a condition agreed to by Grazier and the home secretary. Setting him loose in London wasn’t. When he gave Sarraf his business card, Bish’s hand was shaking. The only consolation was that the hand that took it was shaking even harder.





30



It’s dark by the time Layla gets home from a booze-up at the Defector’s Weld. The first of her university friends is finally engaged, and although she doesn’t feel left behind, she was hoping for good news of her own that day. The junior partnership was within her reach, but those hopes are down to nothing now. The mood changed around her during the week. Elliot and Ortley’s visit didn’t help, but it was more than that. Once or twice she saw Jemima in Frank Silvey’s office, and her manner with Layla went from indifferent and unimpressed to awkward and slightly guilty. It meant Jemima knew something, as office spies usually did.

And yet it isn’t the inevitable failure to get junior partnership that is humiliating so much as the realization of what she’s allowed herself to become this past year. A yes-person. The sort who doesn’t question anything. Who checks her tone and volume when speaking to the partners. Who lets them believe they’re teaching her something she doesn’t already know. Layla’s greatest regret is that she has sold a piece of her soul and still missed out.

It’s rare that she switches on the main light in the staircase, even when she’s back late. Most of the time it turns itself off when she’s halfway up the stairs, which frightens her more than the dark. But tonight she wishes she switched it on. She feels a quick thump of fear when she sees the shadow at her door.

“It’s just me.”

Him.

“I need a place to stay for the night,” Jimmy says quietly, as if it hasn’t been twelve years since they last saw each other. He has nothing with him. No overnight bag, just the clothes he’s wearing.

“Are you legal?” she asks. “Because I don’t need trouble.” She doesn’t care if that sounds harsh. After Calais all those years ago, she owes Jimmy Sarraf nothing.

“I’ve got two days,” he says, and she’s reminded of how much pleasure his voice always brought her. Unlike Noor, educated at the best schools on scholarship, Jimmy would always sound like the neighborhood.

“They think Violette might show her face if she knows I’m in London,” he says.

Layla unlocks the door and lets him in. Already, he fills the space of the room. “Have you seen Noor?”

He nods, looking around.

“How is she taking it?” Layla is trying to ignore how uncomfortable she feels having him look at everything she owns. The art on her walls and the flawless cream furniture suddenly look pretentious. When they were teenagers they knew each other’s interests by heart. Layla knows nothing about him now.

His eyes settle on the piano in the corner. It’s ridiculous to have one in a flat this size, but it belonged to his family. Both their mothers forced them to learn to play. Layla failed miserably. Jimmy never failed at anything and showed as much talent for the piano as for football. When Etienne sold off everything belonging to Noor and her family to pay the lawyers, people were getting their belongings for a steal, so Layla’s mother bought the piano to stop others from taking it.

“Does my mother know you’re here?” she asks.

“I rang Jocelyn.”

“She’ll want to see you. My mother.”