When You Are Mine(39)

‘He thinks I’m soft in the head. He says that we didn’t change London. It changed by itself. People have always complained about development. They whinged about the South Bank and the Barbican and Canary Wharf.’

‘Why don’t you build more social housing? You could give something back.’

‘The wealthy don’t want to live next to the poor.’

‘That’s not an excuse.’

‘I know.’

Below us, a crane swings a girder across the skeletal framework of a building, lowering into the outstretched arms of a dozen men, who are making sure it slots into place.

‘The flat in Wandsworth will be ready by Tuesday. There won’t be a name on the lease.’ We walk back to his office where the keys are waiting on his desk.

I thank him. Pausing. Faltering.

‘The other day – at your birthday party – you recognised the name Darren Goodall.’

Dismissively. ‘He was all over the news.’

‘Is that the only reason?’

He makes a clucking noise.

‘If he was bent, would you tell me?’

‘No.’

I want to argue. He smiles sadly. ‘It’s safer that way.’

‘I need another favour,’ I say.

His eyebrows almost meet.

‘It’s not for me,’ I say. ‘Mum is going to lose the salon. She owes money to the landlord.’

‘How much?’

‘Seven thousand pounds.’

He takes a chequebook from the same drawer.

‘She won’t take it from you,’ I say, and immediately recognise the hurt in his eyes.

‘How then?’ he asks.

‘We have to think of another way.’

‘I could have it delivered in a brown paper bag.’

I almost say, ‘Could you?’ but realise that he’s joking.

‘That’s not how things are done these days,’ he says.

‘Perhaps you could wire it from your Swiss bank account.’

Now I’m the one who’s joking, but not entirely.

‘I’ll work something out,’ he says.

‘Is that a promise?’

He holds up his little finger and I flash back to being four years old and making pinkie-promises in our back garden where he would squeeze himself into my Wendy house and drink pretend tea made from grass clippings and water from the hose.

He’s such a charming old bugger. He’s like one of those animals that looks harmless, even cuddly – a polar bear, or an elephant seal, or an owl – but behind those big intelligent eyes and wide, welcoming face, there will always be the mind of a predator.





20


Henry has three days off and we’ve driven north to visit his parents in Hertfordshire. Henry’s father is an Anglican vicar, who is married to the perfect vicar’s wife, and they both regard Roxanne as the perfect daughter-in-law who gave them the perfect grandchild. I, therefore, am chopped liver.

When I first met Reverend Chapman, he terrified me because I expected Bible studies questions or a virginity test.

‘He knows you’re not a virgin,’ said Henry, laughing.

‘You told him I was religious.’

‘I said you went to a Catholic school.’

‘Now you’re splitting hairs.’

On that first meeting, we were spending the weekend at the Old Vicarage, sleeping in separate bedrooms, of course, and Reverend Bill asked me to say grace. I told him that I’d prefer not to. Later, he tried to engage me in a theological discussion, arguing that God had to be real because so many people believe in his existence. I told him we could say the same about Allah, Shiva, Vishnu and Krishna. Finally, he gave me a pitying look and said it was sad to see someone so young going through life always demanding proof that something exists.

‘How do you know love is real?’ he asked. ‘You can’t see it, or hold it.’

‘I can hold Henry and I love him.’

This triggered a smug smile. ‘That sounds like faith, not proof.’

‘Not at all. In the police we call love without evidence something else.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Stalking.’

Henry laughed so hard he snorted wine out of his nose.

Reverend Bill and Janet hear us arriving. They are standing side by side outside the vicarage, as though recreating American Gothic without the pitchfork or the gloomy looks. The vicar is a string bean of a man wearing a black short-sleeved clergy shirt with a white tab collar. Janet is in her normal floral dress with her hair pulled back so severely that her eyebrows lift in perpetual surprise. There are hugs and kisses, and questions about the drive, which only took us an hour, but they seem to think London is in a different time zone. The weather is also covered, as well as the traffic. Boxes ticked. This could be a long three days.

We carry our bags inside and are shown to our rooms – yes, plural. Since we’re not married, we can’t share a bedroom, let alone a bed. On my first visit, Henry managed to sneak up to my attic room and surprise me in the middle of the night. He might have got away with it if not for a particularly noisy brass bed head. At breakfast Janet looked like she’d sucked on a lemon, or at least half a grapefruit, and was beating eggs as though trying to punish them. Why do I keep surrounding myself with religious parents?