Eight
The driver is standing outside the car by the time I get to it. He touches his cap. ‘Miss Lana Bloom?’
I nod breathlessly.
‘Good morning. Tom Edwards,’ he says, by way of introduction and opens the back door for me. I sink into the fragrant, immaculately pale interior and he shuts the door after me. Along the building I see the heads of all my neighbors poking out of their windows.
I lean back. The leather under my palm is soft and cool. Tom gets into the front and looks at me in the rearview mirror. He has soft brown eyes that crinkle in the corners. He takes a white envelope from the passenger seat and twists around to hand it to me. ‘Our first stop is the doctor. This is for him.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the letter. It has my doctor’s name written in blue ink and is unsealed. The glass that separates us closes and the engine hums into life. I open the letter and read it. It is a request for my medical records.
My mobile lights up.
‘Hey,’ says Jack. His voice is bright and full of life.
‘Hey,’ I reply matching his brightness.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Why?’
‘Come on… I know you better than that. Spit it out, Lana.’
‘OK, but not on the phone. Are you coming down this weekend to see your mother?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you then.’
‘No, you won’t. I’ll come by my mum’s for dinner. You can tell me then.’
‘I’ve got a date.’
There is a silence. ‘Really? That’s great. Anyone I know?’
‘You don’t know him, but you might have heard of him.’
‘Well?’
‘Blake Law Barrington.’
‘The Blake Barrington?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ve got a date with a Barrington? How? What are you not telling me, Lana?’ He sounds worried.
‘It’s not really a date, but I can’t tell you on the phone.’
‘You’re not doing anything stupid, are you?’ he asks apprehensively.
‘No, Jack. I’m not. I’m doing the only thing I can do.’
‘It’s something to do with your mum, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh! Shit, Lana. You didn’t.’
‘I did.’
‘You’re better than this.’
‘Jack, my mum’s dying. She’s stage four. She doesn’t have months to live. The doctors have given her weeks.’
‘Oh, Lana. Can’t we borrow the money?’
My laugh is bitter. ‘Who can I ask, Jack? Jerry? And if I ask Jerry what will I need to do for the money?’
‘What do you need to do for the money now?’
‘What I am doing won’t land me in prison. It’s just sex, Jack.’
Jack goes silent.
‘It won’t be for long.’
‘How long?’
‘It’s for a month.’
‘That long?’
‘It’s a lot of money, Jack.’
‘Don’t give the shit a day more than a month.’
‘I won’t. I’ve got to go, but I will see you during the weekend. And thanks for caring about me.’
‘It’s just a bad habit.’
‘Jack?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I miss you, you know.’
‘Just be safe, Lana.’
‘Bye, Jack.’
‘Bye, Lana,’ he says and there is so much sadness in his voice that I want to call him back and reassure him that it isn’t so bad. I am not selling my soul, only my body.
In the doctor’s surgery I pass over the envelope and am ushered into a room with the nurse who asks and performs the necessary blood tests with brisk efficiency. Afterwards, she discusses several options and recommends Microgynon.
‘Take it from today. Since your last period ended two days ago you should be protected immediately, but just to be safe use a condom for the next seven days,’ she advises. Twenty minutes after I entered that small blue and white room I have a prescription for three months’ supply of contraceptive pills.
The receptionist has an envelope for me. It is addressed to Mr. Jay Benby. This letter is sealed.
I thank her and go outside. Tom jumps out of the car and opens the door for me before going around the back of the car and getting into the driver’s seat.
‘If you give me the prescription, I’ll pick it up for you while you are at the solicitors.’
For some strange reason I feel the heat rush up my throat.
‘I have daughters your age,’ he says kindly, and I lean forward and hand him the prescription. ‘Thanks, Mr. Edwards.’
‘No worries. And call me Tom.’
‘Er… How long have you been working for Mr. Barrington?’
‘Going on seven years now.’
‘Is he… Is he a fair man?’
Tom meets my eyes in the mirror. ‘He’s as straight as a die,’ he says, and by his tone I realize that he will volunteer no more than that. I turn my head and watch the people on the street.
The solicitor’s offices are in an old building in the West End. I am surprised to note that it is not the slick place I expected. The hushed air of importance, mingled with an impression that nothing much ever happens here, makes it feel more like a library. A receptionist shows me into Mr. Jay Benby’s room.
The room smells faintly of air-freshener. The carpet is green, his table is an old antique inlaid with green leather, and the old-fashioned, mahogany bookshelves are filled with thick volumes of law books. Behind Mr. Benby there is a dark, rather grim painting of a countryside landscape in a gilded frame. The painting is so old that the sky is yellow in some parts and brown in others.
Mr. Benby rises from the depths of a deeply padded black leather chair. His grip is very firm and his smile serves as a polite welcome. He is wearing a dark, three-piece suit and a red, silk tie. And his hair—what little is left of it—has been carefully slicked back.
He waves his hand towards one of the chairs in front of his desk and I see that he is wearing a ring with a large, opaque, blue stone on his little finger. It strikes me as incongruous. I remember a story my mother once told me.
He was rich and wore a turquoise ring from Nishapur on his little finger.
Everything else about Mr. Benby and his office says, Trust me. I’m good for it. The opaque ring alone screams, I’m a liar.
After exchanging brief pleasantries he pushes a stapled, thin bunch of papers towards me. ‘Here is your contract.’
I look at it. Consensual Sexual Acts and Confidentiality Agreement.
‘You are within your rights to take it home, read it yourself and if you prefer, get your own lawyer to look at it, but no amendments can be made to it.’
I bite my lip and eye the contract. ‘Can you show me where it says I will receive the hundred thousand pounds?’
He appears surprised. ‘Of course.’
His kind obviously don’t talk about money openly. They just bill you. He turns the contract to its second page and puts a clean, blunt finger to the clause that I was asking for. And I see that it clearly states that I will be paid the sum as soon as I sign the contract. I look up at Benby. ‘Do you have a pen?’
His eyebrows rise. ‘Don’t you want to read it first?’
I shake my head.
He looks at me disapprovingly. ‘This agreement has been drawn up so there is never any…misunderstanding. You must be fully aware of the gravity and nature of the contract you are about to sign and agree to abide by its conditions. There are some clauses in there that are of utmost importance.’
‘Like what?’
‘The most important being the confidentiality understanding. This clause means that you will never be able to write a book, sell your story, or reveal any personal details about Mr. Barrington or his family. There is no information, even outside of sexual activities, that may be revealed to anyone. Not even friends or family. You can never bring a guest to the apartment you will share with Mr. Barrington. This clause applies to family, friends and acquaintances. In the event that they reveal anything, you will be held liable.’
He stops and flips the pages of the contract.
‘Please pay particular attention to this section,’ he says stabbing a stubby finger on the paper. ‘It expressly prohibits any form of recording device while in the company of Mr. Barrington.’
I nod.
He clears his throat. ‘And you must practice some form of birth control. In the event that you get pregnant you must terminate the pregnancy immediately.’
I stare at him. What kind of people are these?
Undaunted by my astonished face the lawyer carries on talking, ‘You must understand that this contract is binding. At the dissolution of your relationship you will not receive anything more than is already stipulated in this contract. Other than the agreed sum you will not seek further financial gain, notoriety or advancement in any form as the result of this relationship. Breach of contract or failure by yourself will result in immediate termination of the agreement, and in the case of breach, the offended party may seek all remedies available at law or in equity. This section shall survive termination of this agreement and remain in effect for the rest of your life.’
‘Fine.’
‘One more thing. Mr. Barrington wanted me to emphasize that the contract will be for three months.’
‘I thought it was going to be for one month?’
The lawyer’s face does not change. ‘Your services will be required for the period of three months.’
I press my lips together. I was very drunk last night, but I am sure he said one month. ‘Can I speak to him?’
‘Of course.’ He picks up the phone and speed dials his client’s number. ‘Mr. Barrington, Miss Bloom would like to have a word about the length of the contract.’ He pauses to listen to something Blake says. ‘Yes, she has.’ Then he passes the phone to me and quietly leaves the room. I wait until he closes the door before I speak. I am dismayed to hear my voice sound uncertain and timid.
‘Hello, Blake.’
‘Hello, Lana.’ His voice is different than I remembered. Colder: he seems a total stranger.
I swallow. ‘About the duration of the contract. The lawyer says…’ I begin.
‘Sorry, Lana, but that is not negotiable,’ he says, not sounding sorry at all.
‘Oh.’
‘Was there anything else you wanted?’
‘Er… No.’
‘Well, have a good day then, and I will see you tonight.’
There is a click and the line goes dead. I replace the phone slowly. It dawns on me then that Scott Fitzgerald was right—the rich are different. They are unashamed by their ruthlessness. The lawyer, who must have been watching an extension light, walks into the room.
‘All sorted out?’
‘Yes. Where do I sign?’
‘You do realize that you will have to read it at some point as there are other clauses than the ones we have discussed in there that you must adhere to.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you acknowledge that you have received, read and understood the terms and conditions outlined, and agree to abide by the said terms?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right,’ he drawls and looks at me expectantly. And I realize he has opened the contract up at the last page.
‘Sign here.’
I sign. My hands are dead steady.
‘And date it here.’
I date it.
He opens another contract. ‘Sign and date again, please.’
When I raise my head he is watching me steadily. He smiles coldly. It occurs to me that he believes his dealings with me to be beneath him. I am expensive trash. He has thoughts about me that are supremely unflattering.
‘Well, that’s that, then. Here is your copy.’
He presses a buzzer that brings his secretary. ‘Helen here will take your bank details and tell you everything else you need to know.’ He half stands and holds his hand out. ‘Thank you, Miss Bloom. Please do not hesitate to call me if you have any further queries.’
In the back seat of the Bentley, I find a Boots bag and inside it my prescription. I ask Tom to stop at a cash machine. I pop my debit card into the hole in the wall and can hardly believe it. One hundred thousand and thirty-two pounds, seventy pence. By heaven!