Moonlight on the Thames Page 11

  He’d been right to hide the truth, right to walk away. Squash that hope like a bug under his foot. He wasn’t a boy any more. He never would be again.

  Dmitri passed a few bookshops that were still open and kept walking until he found a convenience store. He went inside. The condoms were behind the counter. The bored clerk got the box down and put it in a paper bag. Dmitri paid in cash and stuck the bag in his pocket.

  The night at the station when he’d first seen Nicola, he’d felt like this. That night, he’d gone down into the underground and made his way home. Tonight, though, he was going the other way.

  14

  Nicola got off the train at Richmond and went out of the station. She walked down the high street, past bustling restaurants and bars that were lit up and decorated for Christmas. She turned into a darker street that led to The Green. There were quite a few people out walking: couples, families, dog walkers. Some of the houses she passed were strung with lights and had shiny Christmas trees in the window. There was still a spattering of snow on the ground, but mostly it had gone wet and slushy. The clouds had begun to disperse, and for a few seconds, the moon was visible again. The same moon that she’d seen from Waterloo Bridge. She refused to look at it, glad when the clouds swallowed it up again.

  The three mews houses – two of them lit up, and one dark – reminded her of the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future. Hers, as ever, the one that was cold and silent. Even the motion-sensitive security light above the door had burned out, she noted. Before opening the door, she checked around her to make sure she was alone. She was.

  Inside, she took off her coat, and frowned down at the pile of post on the mat. Bills, circulars, and three heavy card envelopes that could only be Christmas cards. She picked them up and set them on the hall table along with her keys. Tomorrow she’d open the envelopes, read the cards, throw them in the bin.

  She went up the stairs to the sitting room and over to the old piano. It was a Bechstein from the early 1900s made of dark, burred walnut. Opening the lid, she pressed middle C. The sound was a little bit tinny, and probably very out of tune – she couldn’t tell. In the New Year, she’d get rid of it, along with the rest of the stuff in the attic that she’d kept after her dad died. Clear everything out. Start again.

  Nicola closed the lid on the piano and went to the kitchen. She opened one of the bottles of wine she’d bought and poured herself a large glass. If Dmitri was here, she’d keep the piano – get it tuned. She drank the wine down quickly. Where had that stupid thought come from? She’d never invited a man here, never allowed anyone to invade her personal space. Some things were sacred.

  Pouring herself a second glass of wine, she went upstairs. The master suite took up the entire top floor, and there was an en suite bathroom with a huge bathtub and walk-in tiled shower. She turned on the taps to run a bath. Being in the city and on public transport always made her feel grubby. But as the water began to rush into the tub, she turned it off again. Grubby or not, right now she didn’t want to wash off what little remained of the day.

  Nicola went back to her room and took off her outer clothing, putting it all in the laundry basket for the cleaner to wash. She stood in front of the full-length mirror studying herself. Her breasts were full in the black lace bra, her abs, arm and leg muscles toned and sculpted from lunchtimes spent at the gym. She thought of Ollie, and the other men over the years whose hands had been on her skin. As far as she knew, she had been Ollie’s only woman – other than his wife, of course – though they didn’t speak about it. She had had other men besides him. Not frequently, but whenever she felt hurt, angry, or lonely enough to bother meeting someone – usually at a hotel bar or on a business trip. No names, no stories. They were nothing to her.

  Nicola took off the bra and pants. These she had bought herself, they weren’t a gift from Ollie or anyone else. She threw them in the laundry basket and went to her top drawer in the walk-in wardrobe and opened it. Naked and shivering in the cold, she took out all the expensive, beautiful lingerie that she’d collected over the years.

  There were carrier bags at the back of the wardrobe. Nicola filled one up with the armful of lingerie – anything that had been a gift or that she’d worn with a man. She put on a pair of old cotton pants that she wore at home when she had her period, slipped on a T-shirt and put on her favourite silk bathrobe. But the robe too had been a gift from Ollie. She took it off and put it in the bag with the rest of the lingerie. Though she’d been planning on throwing out the lot with the rubbish, there were hundreds of pounds’ worth of clothing in the bag. There was an Oxfam on the way to the station, she could drop the lot off on her way to work Monday morning. She slipped on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, and an oversized jumper.

  Nicola took the bag and the glass of wine back downstairs. She curled up on the sofa with her laptop and phone and checked her texts and emails. Though it was Saturday night, there were numerous work things she could be getting on with. But what was the point?

  She opened up the stream of texts from Ollie, that she’d shown Dmitri. The whole thing made her feel sick, disgusted. If she hadn’t shown him the texts, would things be any different now? One by one, she deleted the messages, then Ollie’s number off her phone.

  Dmitri didn’t have her number, nor did she have his. He’d planned it that way deliberately – she realised that now. She looked at the photo she had taken of the two of them, fallen on the ice. His hair was half over his dark eyes, but he’d been smiling, laughing. As for herself, she didn’t even recognise the woman in the photo. It was a moment of happiness, a ray of light shining down, making her glow inside. Now, though, that glow was well and truly extinguished.

  She deleted the photo and turned off the phone, as fat, useless tears began to roll down her cheek.

  15

  The bar of the swish, five-star hotel was decorated for Christmas. There were tiny evergreen trees on each table trimmed with red bows and fairy lights and a fir and holly garland above the bar. Two of the bartenders were wearing Santa hats like the one Dmitri had in his bag – and at this moment felt like tossing in the bin.

  He looked around at the people. There were a few couples sitting at tables, a group of businessmen and a few men on their own. He eyed up the women. He recognised two Ukrainian prostitutes who were sitting at the bar. They were speaking to each other, but one looked up and nodded to him. Standing near them was a third that he didn’t recognise – a new girl. There was also a forty-something woman on her own sitting at a table near the bar with an empty glass, scrolling through messages on her phone. She looked up and he held her gaze for a long second, then took in the rest of her. On a business trip from out of town, he suspected. She’d be bored, feeling awkward being here on her own. She’d already have a room upstairs. He could buy her a drink. Start chatting. It would be so easy.

  God, he suddenly felt sick.

  He perched himself at the bar. The bartender came up to him. ‘Orange juice?’ the man said.

  ‘No,’ Dmitri said. ‘Double vodka.’

  The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn’t question it. He poured the drink into a tumbler and set it on the bar. Dmitri scanned his card on the reader to pay. The man also made him an orange juice, setting it next to the tumbler of vodka. Dmitri nodded once, but didn’t thank him.

  He put his card back in his wallet, staring straight ahead at the shelves of colourful bottles and the mirror behind. Then he lifted the tumbler to his face and sniffed it. The smell made his stomach lurch. This clear liquid, so like water. Unthinking and unfeeling. And yet, so deadly potent. He knew the clichés about Russians and the curse of vodka. The irony was, that before the fall of the Soviet Union, he couldn’t remember his father ever touching the stuff. His father had liked sweet tea, just like he did. And cigarettes. Dmitri had smoked from a young age; music could be a nerve-wracking business, and certainly most of the other music students at the Conservatory had smoked. But he hadn’t had a cigarette near
his lips since that night.

  That night. Christmas Eve. The 6th of January. The envelope had arrived by post the day before. He’d intercepted it, kept it hidden. He knew what it contained. But his father didn’t. There would be consequences. He’d have to move back home. Come back and suffer the shame, that he hadn’t been able to hack it. His father had trusted him to be away from home for the first time, to be let off the leash. And he’d pissed away that trust. Nightclubs, alcohol, girls. He’d lost his place; his father was going to be so angry—

  A tap on his arm brought him back to reality. The new girl had moved closer to him.

  She flicked her long blonde hair back and smiled. Her front teeth were crooked.

  He set the tumbler of vodka back on the bar and pushed it her way.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take it.’

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ she said, picking up the glass. Her accent was Ukrainian or maybe Romanian. She switched to halting Russian. ‘You looking for company?’ She was right next to him now, her arm touching his.

  He shrugged but didn’t reply.

  She lifted the glass to her mouth, licking the rim with her tongue. ‘One on the house, maybe?’

  He glanced at her. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I like the look of you. And my friends – she gestured to the other girls – know you.’

  He laughed. Time and time again he’d come to the same bars, come across the same women. Some of them wanted out; some wanted to keep their younger sister or cousin out of the game. And sometimes, he was able to help. Phil, his stepfather, owned a cleaning company. His mother had found work there when she needed it most. Phil knew people who knew people.

  Unfortunately, many were beyond help. Drug addicts, or just with the cruellest pimps – it was often best to steer clear. Some of the women, though, over time, had become his friends. He’d buy them a drink, sometimes a meal. And when they’d offer more and he’d refuse, they’d laugh at him and tell him to grow up.

  ‘No thanks,’ he said, flatly.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the businesswoman at the table stand up to leave. She glanced in his direction, looking disgusted. He sighed. So much for that.

  He turned back to the girl, leaning in closer. ‘And here’s a piece of advice.’ He gestured in the direction of two men sitting at a table at the back of the bar. Not the worst, but still, dangerous. ‘You can’t be giving out freebies.’

  She tipped back the vodka. ‘Why the fuck not? I’ll end up dead in a ditch somewhere anyway.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He passed the orange juice over to her. She drank it down greedily. He leaned his elbows against the bar, staring down at the dark, lacquered wood. His hair fell forward into this face. He let it stay there.

  ‘So if you’re not here to drink and you’re not here to get laid, then why are you here?’ The woman moved even closer to him. He felt a spark of desire and a wave of disgust as he looked sideways at her. She was young, early-twenties probably, and painfully thin underneath her tight black dress. Her hair was so light it was almost translucent, and her blue eyes reminded him of Irina. Bile rose in his throat.

  He took her by the arm. She flinched as he pushed up the tight sleeve of her dress and looked down at her flesh. Pale and white, traversed by blue veins. No needle marks.

  ‘You’re new to this, dorogusha,’ he said sharply. ‘Or else you wouldn’t still be here talking to me after I’ve said I’m not interested.’ He squeezed her wrist. ‘You’ve still got a chance.’ He loosened his grip and let go of her. ‘You should take it.’ He dug in his pocket and removed the paper bag with the box of condoms. He opened the bag, took out one of Phil’s cards from his wallet and put it inside. ‘Call this number,’ he said. ‘It won’t be much. Cleaning – that sort of thing. But this man knows people. I trust him.’ He set the bag on the bar in front of her, got off the stool and turned to leave. ‘And by the way,’ he said, ‘you’re in London, not America. They say Happy Christmas here.’

  He walked out of the bar swiftly, and without a backwards glance. He continued out of the hotel, and into the street.

  16

  6th December

  At five a.m. Nicola sat upright in a cold sweat. She’d been dreaming of candyfloss and carousels, a long-ago day out at a funfair. A sparkly dress, laughter, the world spinning as the horse moved up and down. And then he was there in front of her. Blue eyes, blonde hair… a hand on her arm… that smile. She was falling, her heels twisting beneath her. The ice was so cold against her back… that dreadful smile…

  A plane flew overhead. Nicola pulled the duvet over her head and willed herself to stop shaking, and go back to sleep. It didn’t work. The worst thing was not the nightmare – she always had plenty of those this time of year – or the noise of the planes, or the cold darkness outside the window. It was the fact that it was five a.m., and a Sunday. So many hours to get through until the new week began and it was time to go to work.

  Realising that sleep was futile, she sat up and turned on the light. She’d check her emails, do some work, go for a run. Maybe call Jules and see if she and the kids were up for a walk in Richmond Park. And then there was the bag of lingerie – she could drop it off at Oxfam today. What they’d make of it, or do with it, she had no idea. But even as the memories of the previous, magical day were becoming murky and indistinct, her resolve to make a new start was crystal clear.

  Nicola got out of bed. After a few glasses of wine last night, she’d passed out and hadn’t even brushed her teeth. Her head ached, but it was her own fault. Dmitri didn’t drink alcohol. Maybe that was because of his father, who, from the sound of things, had been a violent drunk.

  Dmitri. God, she wished she could just get him out of her mind.

  She distracted herself by going downstairs to the kitchen and putting on the coffee maker. Sitting at the table, she ate some yoghurt and muesli and checked her emails on her phone. Her heroics yesterday had damaged the screen and she’d probably have to endure the hassle of getting a new one from IT. There were conference call invites to accept, documents to review, a few invitations to schmoozy client events in the new year. She thought of the homeless shelter – how surprisingly clean and cared for it had seemed. Not at all what she would have expected. People like Kolya obviously cared deeply for their work. It must be very difficult, but satisfying too.

  She read over an email from a junior who’d been crunching some numbers for her on an Argentine company that made exquisite high-heeled shoes. They were looking for a buyer to take them into the European market. The numbers were a little marginal, but she had a few investors in mind. The prospects were strong enough that she could justify a trip there, spend a week in Buenos Aires, come back with a suntan and a suitcase or two full of shoes that would make Jules drool with envy. She should contact travel and start making the arrangements. Shoes. She scrolled down through her inbox. Other deals, other companies: specialising in jewellery, fashion, corporate away days. Her career had been built on these things, but right now, it all seemed so pointless, so lacking in humanity. That had never bothered her before. So why now?

  Nicola continued to read and respond to emails until the sky eventually became light. Shutting down her laptop, she took her coffee mug and went outside on to the balcony that overlooked the river. The water was grey and murky but there was a bank of luminous pink clouds on the horizon. The temperature was still near freezing, and she blew out a white cloud of breath that mingled with the steam rising from her mug.

  Nicola checked her watch. Eight a.m. Christ, maybe she should just go back to bed. Or read a book? She’d always loved books, and one entire wall of her front room had a built-in shelf that was full of them. But books evoked emotions, and that was something she wanted to avoid. Feel nothing. That was the goal right now.

  Going back inside, she finished the coffee and put the cup in the dishwasher. It was early yet and the path along the river would probably be slippery with ice. But at least it wouldn’t be crowded.
Heading to her bedroom, she put on her running gear. Maybe the cold and the exertion would help to clear her head.

  On her way out the door, she grabbed her phone and her Bluetooth headphones. She scrolled through her music playlists: Energise, Endurance, Stamina, Relaxation. All of it was gym music, most of it pumping and tuneless, or schmaltzy and tuneless. On a whim, she went to Spotify and typed in ‘Rachmaninov piano’. There were hundreds of hits. She downloaded a popular playlist, realising that this was probably the last thing she should be doing. But it was done.

  She put on ‘Energise’ and left her house. Having the piano playlist on her phone seemed daring and subversive enough. She’d save the listening to it for later.

  Outside, it was even colder than she’d realised. In the cobbled yard outside the mews houses, she did a warm-up, but still felt chilled. She made her way around the back of the houses to the path along the river.

  Though it was still icy, Nicola ran as quickly as she dared. The sun had risen a little higher now, but the path was still mostly in shadow. She ran past the buildings along the river that made up Richmond town centre: bars, restaurants, boathouses. She continued on through Petersham Meadows and past Ham House and Eel Pie Island. She had to watch every step. Several times her foot hit a hidden patch of ice and she almost went over.

  Nicola continued on as far as Teddington Lock. There, she stopped, leaning over, gasping out white clouds of breath. Her head was aching from the exertion, the wine and from the God-awful music. She switched it off.