31 Dream Street by Lisa Jewell Page A

up curiously as Con walked in with Daisy, their eyes straying automatically to her slender legs, but she seemed completely oblivious to their attentions. Usually when people from ‘upstairs’ had cause to come ‘downstairs’, you could sense their need to assimilate themselves briefly in this alien environment to get what they needed before heading back in the lift to the bright lights of normality. But Daisy wasn’t bothered. She hadn’t noticed that she was in a noisy room full of men, Radio One blaring in the background, tabloids being read backwards.
    He led her to the dispatch area to look for her parcel.
    ‘Anything in from Miu Miu for Vogue ?’ he asked Nigel.
    ‘Yeah,’ said Nigel, grabbing a big plastic bag off a rail. ‘Just in, two minutes ago.’ He handed the bag to Con and smiled at Daisy. ‘Hello,’ he said, gormlessly. ‘And who are you?’
    Con sent Nigel a reproachful look. Daisy hadn’t come down here to be flirted with by overweight men in Primark jumpers.
    ‘Hello,’ she smiled back. ‘I’m Daisy.’
    ‘Hello, Daisy. I’m Nigel.’
    ‘Do you like Miu Miu, Nigel?’
    Nigel smiled. ‘My favourite,’ he said.
    ‘They do nice shoes, too.’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ he agreed, ‘lovely shoes. But not as nice as those Christian Louboutins. Now those are really nice shoes.’
    Daisy laughed, then Nigel laughed. And Con watched in wonder as they joked together, this lardy fortysomething man from Hainault and an angel from the eighth floor. And he knew it then. Daisy had jumped out of the wallpaper and was within his grasp. It was just a matter of time.

19
    It was five in the morning and Ruby was about to creep up the stairs and head for bed when a figure appeared in the hallway. It was Melinda, groomed and polished, blonde hair scraped back into a sleek bun, all ready for work in her navy and yellow uniform.
    ‘Oh, hello.’ Melinda pulled her leather coat off the coat stand and glanced icily at Ruby.
    ‘Morning,’ said Ruby, suddenly conscious of the alcohol on her breath. Her hands felt clammy and dirty. She wanted to wash them.
    They stood facing each other for a while. A bird outside started to sing.
    Melinda spoke first. ‘I’m not going to talk to you now because you’re drunk, but just know this – if you do anything, anything to hurt my boy, I’ll belt you. I swear.’ And then she slung her coat over her arm, picked up her fake Mulberry handbag and left.
    Ruby stood for a while, feeling vodka and red wine swilling round the pit of her empty stomach. Then a rush of violent indignation hit her between the ribs, impelling her towards the front door. She threw it open and stamped down the steps, towards Melinda’s receding figure. ‘You are a sick and twisted bitch, do you know that?’
    Melinda turned and stared at her, and Ruby had a sudden moment of objectivity, of seeing this tableau through somebody else’s eyes – the wild-haired, grimy-skinned brunette in tight jeans and a flimsy jersey top screaming at the cool blonde with the shower-fresh skin and crisp suit in the middle of the street, as twilight flickered round the horizon.
    ‘Like I said,’ Melinda began, pulling her car keys out of her bag, ‘I won’t talk to you while you’re in this state. Have a good day.’ The chirrup and click of her car locks opening punctured the silence, and she slid into the driver’s seat, slipped on her seat belt and very slowly, and very deliberately, manoeuvred her Peugeot 306 out of its space.
    Ruby stood on the pavement for a while, swaying slightly in the wake of this surreal collision between the end of her day and the start of Melinda’s. And then she climbed the steps to the house, made her way to her bedroom and fell asleep on top of her bed, still wearing all her clothes.

20
    Toby’s love for Ruby ebbed and flowed like the tide. When he’d first met her fifteen years ago he’d been consumed by lust for her. It had overwhelmed him to the point that he’d had to