When You Are Mine(33)

16


On Wednesday morning I take the train to Camden Town to visit my mother. I’m on the Northern Line pulling out of Goodge Street station when a man in a woollen hat steps into the carriage and takes a seat next to me. I glance at the empty seats opposite, annoyed that he’s chosen to sit so close. Then I realise who it is.

‘Relax,’ says Darren Goodall. ‘I only want to talk.’

The composition of his face surprises me – his thin lips, pale cheeks and darkly oiled hair. I try to move away, but he grips my forearm. I want to back-hand him with my fist, but I’ve made that mistake before.

The train doors close. Goodall takes a toothpick from his jacket pocket and sucks on one end. An old smoker’s trick. I can smell his sweat through his deodorant.

‘Where is she?’

I feign ignorance.

‘I know you’re in touch with her.’

‘With all due respect, sir, you should leave her alone.’

‘She took something of mine – I want it back.’

‘What did she take?’

‘It’s personal.’

A vein seems to be pulsing in his temple. He takes a breath. Sighs. Rubs his eyes.

‘I can make things very difficult for you.’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘That won’t matter.’

He smiles and spreads his knees, touching mine. I want to move further away.

‘She was a lousy fuck, you know.’

I don’t respond.

‘You look like you know your way around a bedroom.’ He cups his genitals. ‘I’d fuck you if you asked me nicely.’

‘I’m not sure your wife would approve.’

‘You don’t need to bring her into this.’

‘Why? Does she count for so little?’

I stand and walk down the carriage, where three young men in England shirts are lounging, wide-kneed, shoulders hunched, studying their phones. The train jerks as it slows and I stumble into one of them, apologising. I can hear Goodall laughing.

As soon as the doors open, I step off and duck between the people waiting on the platform. Without looking, I know that Goodall is behind me. He follows me up the escalator and through the ticket gate. I’m hoping there’s a cab outside.

He’s close. ‘Tell her she’s getting nothing more from me.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘She’s a parasite.’

I want to ask another question, but he’s turned away. My phone vibrates. It’s a message from Tempe. I suddenly wish I’d had the presence of mind to record the conversation with Goodall so I’d have proof, but the moment has passed.

My mother, Rosina, was born, baptised, confirmed, educated and married within a mile of here, and only escaped when she and Daddy moved to Ilford before I was born. After the divorce, she returned to Camden like a migratory bird, and has been here ever since.

Her father, my grandfather, Leonardo, had a barbershop overlooking Camden Lock for thirty years. When he retired he gave it to Mum, who turned it into Belle Curls, a beauty salon that is squeezed between an off-licence and an Afghan grocer in a brightly painted parade of shops. The front window is plastered with posters advertising facials, peels, lash lifts and henna brows.

Normally, I love visiting the salon, but my stomach is still churning over my meeting with Goodall. I should warn Tempe that he’s looking for her. If he can find me, he can find her.

I stop at a flower barrow at the markets and choose six stems from the riot of carnations, daffodils, tulips, roses and dahlias that are crammed into zinc buckets. The aging florist wraps the bouquet in cellophane and sends his regards to Rosina, mentioning her name almost wistfully. She could have any number of suitors if she made herself available.

The bell rings above me and every head turns in my direction. Three gowned women are sitting on pink chairs having their hair washed, tinted or blow-dried.

‘Look who it is!’ yells Mercedes, a large West Indian stylist who is my mother’s business partner. She has a musical laugh and the softest breasts in the world.

‘Come say hello, baby,’ she says. Pressing me to her chest.

‘Is Mum here?’

‘Having a fag.’

‘I thought she’d given up.’

‘Another false alarm.’

I put the flowers on the counter near the cash register.

‘Are they for us?’

‘Of course.’

The other employee is Lauren, the colourist, who is about my age, but dresses like she’s fifteen and dancing in the mosh-pit of a Justin Bieber concert. Every time I see her she has a new hairstyle that she’s copied from TikTok or YouTube.

The salon has a small kitchen and storeroom that leads to a rear courtyard where my mother is seated on a low brick wall with a cigarette in her lips and a phone to her ear.

‘Just two more weeks,’ she says. ‘The end of the month.’

Seeing me, she drops the cigarette, crushing it under her pumps, and rapidly ends the phone call.

‘Hello, gorgeous girl,’ she says, smiting my cheekbones with glancing blows from her own. We are roughly the same height, with the same heart-shaped face and wavy hair, although hers has been tinted so many different colours that I doubt she remembers the natural one.

I take a seat next to her. ‘Who was on the phone?’