Ten
The reception is plush with deep, cream carpets and chandeliers in every hallway. There is an Indian guard slumped behind a desk reading a newspaper in a foreign language who immediately straightens and stands to attention. Tom introduces me.
‘Lana, this is Mr. Nair.’
Tom turns to Mr. Nair. ‘This is Miss Bloom. She will be living in the penthouse for the next three months. Please ensure that she will be well taken care of.’
Mr. Nair smiles broadly. ‘Certainly. That will be my number one priority,’ he says in a strong Indian accent while shaking his head like one of those nodding dogs in the backs of people’s cars. He turns to look at me. ‘I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Bloom. Anything at all that you need, please do not hesitate to ask.’
We shake hands, then Tom accompanies me into the lift. He inserts a card key into a slot and hits the top floor button. I lean against the shiny cold brass handrail while the lift silently races upwards. When the lift doors whoosh open, he allows me to exit first, and then precedes me into the corridor. The corridor is thickly carpeted and tastefully wallpapered in beige and silver.
‘There is only one other apartment on this floor,’ Tom explains and opens the door. He deposits the shopping bags on the floor by the doorway. ‘I will go and get the rest of your shopping and then I will show you how everything works.’
I close the door behind him and lean against it.
Wow! Just wow!
A long corridor with richly enameled walls seems to lead to a light-filled room. As if in slow motion I let my fingers trail on the cool, enameled surface as I walk down the deep white runner carpet towards the glorious light. With the evening sun pouring in, I stand at the doorway to what is the living room, and look at my surroundings in wonder. At the imposingly high ceilings, the amazing glass walls that lead to a wide balcony laid out with a table, chairs and potted topiary. At the mirrored wall that reflected the elegant silver patterned pale lilac wallpaper, the rich furnishings, and the deep-pile, white carpet.
It is so massive, so hugely extravagant and luxurious it is as if I have walked into a page of a glossy magazine. I turn when I hear the door opening.
Tom puts the rest of my shopping on the floor and walks towards me. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, very.’
He takes me around the spacious four-bedroom apartment and shows me how everything works. Which buttons on the remote cause the curtains to open and close and which one makes a gorgeous painting rise onto the wall to expose a TV screen. There are buttons for the shutters, buttons for working the wine cooler, buttons for the lights, the media room, and for the coffee machine. I nod and make sounds to indicate I have understood, but it hardly registers. The opulence overkill has numbed me.
‘Any problems, just call the caretaker. The number is over there,’ he says finally, indicating a card that has been placed on a side table near the front door.
‘Thank you.’
‘Be back for you at eight thirty. Mr. Barrington hates people to be late.’
‘Don’t worry, Tom, you won’t have to hang around waiting for me. I’ll be ready.’
I close the door, find my mobile, hit home, and wait for my mother’s soft voice to answer.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say brightly.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at Blake’s apartment.’
‘Oh! When are you coming home?’
I swallow. This will be the first time I will not return to my own bed. I know it will be difficult for my mother. ‘Not tonight, Mum. I won’t be home tonight, but I’ll be there first thing in the morning.’
First she goes silent. Then she expels a soft sigh. ‘All right, Lana. I will see you tomorrow. Be safe, daughter of mine.’
‘See you tomorrow, mum.’
I walk down the enameled corridor and go into the main bedroom. It is very large with a huge bed. The décor is deep blue and silver. I kick off my shoes and walk barefoot on the luxurious carpet towards the bathroom. The bathroom is a green marble and gold fittings affair. There is a Jacuzzi bath and a large shower cubicle. By the washbasin, lush toiletries still in their packages, have been laid out for my use. I unwrap a pale green oval of soap and wash my hands.
Afterwards, I open cabinets and find them all empty. I go back into the bedroom and walk through to the walnut dressing rooms. The built-in wardrobes are all as bare as the bathroom cabinets.
So he does not live here.
This is a place purely for sex.
I walk out of the bedroom and head for the kitchen. It has been done up in sunny yellow with glossy black granite worktops and surfaces. There is an island in the middle and stools around it. When I was young I dreamed of such a kitchen. I perch on one of the tall stools, swivel around a few times, and hop off. I venture to a cupboard and open it. It is full of stuff—expensive stuff that is never found in my poor mother’s cupboards. Tins of biscuits from Fortnum and Masons, Jellies from Harrods, French chocolates with fancy names. I take a few down and admire the exquisite packaging.
Then I shut the cupboard and turn towards the fridge. More exotic stuff: truffles, hand-made blue cheeses, gooseberries, cuts of dried meats, wild smoked salmon, a dressed lobster, caviar… The vegetable drawer is packed with organic produce. Even the eggs have blue shells. There are two bottles of champagne lying on their sides. I take one out and look at the label. Dom Perignon.
‘Hmnnn…’ I say into the silence.
Carefully, I peel back the foil and the wire that holds down the cork. Holding the bottle between my thighs I twist the cork as I have seen the waiter do, but it takes many tries, and when it finally pops out, I have shaken the bottle so much, it sprays everywhere.
I clean up with some paper napkins, and finding a glass in one of the cabinets pour myself a drink. Carrying the glass I go back into the living room, slide back the doors, and step outside. I stand there for a long while looking at the wonderful view of the park and surrounding area, but I can feel no joy in my heart. My thoughts are with my mother. Eventually I close my eyes and pray that all will be well.
I raise my glass to the sky. ‘Oh, Mum,’ I whisper, ‘be well again.’ Then I bring the glass to my lips and drink to my mother’s health.
There is not enough time to try the Jacuzzi bathtub, so I have a shower. The showerhead is wonderfully powerful unlike the weak one I am used to. The shower invigorates me and I go through my shopping bags with some measure of excitement. The bruises from the night before mean that I am only able to wear the Versace silk shirt. I pull on the tight leather trousers that end at my ankles and slip on the strappy stilettos.
Then I do my eyes the way Aisha taught me to and paint my lips soft pink. I am so nervous my hands tremble slightly. Dressed, I go back into the living room and pour myself another glass of champagne.
At eight thirty sharp the bell rings.
Tom comes in with a large, flat cardboard box, which he carefully places on the side table. ‘I was asked to drop this off for Mr. Barrington. You look beautiful, Miss Bloom,’ he compliments awkwardly.
‘Thank you, but will you call me Lana, Tom?’ The champagne has made me feel light-headed and I smile at him mistily.
‘Of course, Lana,’ he says smiling.
The reception desk is no longer manned by Mr. Nair. A small, white man with beady, suspicious eyes is introduced as Mr. Burrows. He smiles politely, but distantly. This was a man who did not want to get involved with any of the occupants of the building.
After that Tom drives me to a private club in Sloane Square called Madame Yula.