cheeks hot with embarrassment and shame. She thought of Arlette, imagined what she would say if she could see Betty now, her precious girl, her beautiful girl standing in a bleak burger shop in the middle of the afternoon, with an application form for a job here in her handbag. Arlette would snatch it from her and shred it into a hundred pieces without uttering so much as a solitary word. Arlette would take her from here, firmly by the hand, and treat her to a plate of oysters in St James’s. But then, Arlette had never been in Soho, young and penniless and desperate not to have to go home. If Arlette wanted Betty to find Clara Pickle – and Betty knew she did – then Betty would have to earn some money, because here, in the city, a thousand pounds was not going to go very far.
13
BEFORE SHE WENT to bed that night, Betty returned to the fire escape for a final cigarette. It was nearly midnight and the lights in Dom Jones’s house were dimmed. The clank of crockery and the clutter of cutlery was a familiar soundtrack now to her moments out here. Comforting, almost. She lit her roll-up and as she inhaled something caught her eye, a movement across the yard. She looked up and saw a man in the window. He was pushing against the sash, trying to lift it open, struggling with unyielding mechanisms, his face screwed up with the effort. Betty stopped breathing and stared in awe at the scene unfolding. She couldn’t tell if it was
him
. The view through the glass was obscured. As she watched she heard the sash come free and the window loop open and then there he was. Without a shadow of doubt it was him, Dom Jones, in a white vest, tattooed forearms, cupping his hands around a cigarette buried between his lips as he lit it with a Zippo. She watched his face contort with angry relief as the tobacco made its way down his throat and then she saw his eyes moving slowly across the backyard, tired and vaguely furious until they found Betty’s gaze and froze.
Betty quickly looked away, horrified to have been caught staring . Then she looked back, feeling that pretending that she hadn’t been staring at him wasn’t going to fool anyone and would make her look even more stupid. He was still looking at her, with an expression of vague bemusement. He raised one hand to her and she returned the gesture, her heart racing with excitement. She wondered if he would say anything to her, but the thrum of air-conditioning units, the clatter of the kitchen, the yelling of the kitchen staff below, would have meant he’d have to shout to be heard. Instead he stared thoughtfully into the middle distance, sucking from his cigarette rhythmically before rubbing it out against the brickwork and letting it fall to the ground.
He threw Betty one more look before pulling himself back into his house. It was a strange look: half suspicion, half approval. Then he was gone, the sashes rattling back into place, his face a mere shadow behind the glass again. Betty quickly finished her own cigarette and then glanced at her watch. Ten past midnight. Too late to call Bella, the only person she knew who would care about what had just happened. About the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her in her life. But she had no one to share it with.
Betty did not open her eyes until ten o’clock the following morning. When she did she was painfully aware of the fact that from two thirty to four forty-five the previous night she had lain wide awake listening to the woman downstairs having sex. She had seen the woman downstairs only once or twice since she’d moved in, a small Asian woman who wore a lot of denim and looked rather pinched and anxious. She had not smiled or said hello as they’d passed on the stairs, and Betty had followed her instincts not to force a greeting upon her. She had not looked like a person who would have sex for two and a half hours in the middle of the night. She had not looked the type to scream at the top of her voice or to
13
BEFORE SHE WENT to bed that night, Betty returned to the fire escape for a final cigarette. It was nearly midnight and the lights in Dom Jones’s house were dimmed. The clank of crockery and the clutter of cutlery was a familiar soundtrack now to her moments out here. Comforting, almost. She lit her roll-up and as she inhaled something caught her eye, a movement across the yard. She looked up and saw a man in the window. He was pushing against the sash, trying to lift it open, struggling with unyielding mechanisms, his face screwed up with the effort. Betty stopped breathing and stared in awe at the scene unfolding. She couldn’t tell if it was
him
. The view through the glass was obscured. As she watched she heard the sash come free and the window loop open and then there he was. Without a shadow of doubt it was him, Dom Jones, in a white vest, tattooed forearms, cupping his hands around a cigarette buried between his lips as he lit it with a Zippo. She watched his face contort with angry relief as the tobacco made its way down his throat and then she saw his eyes moving slowly across the backyard, tired and vaguely furious until they found Betty’s gaze and froze.
Betty quickly looked away, horrified to have been caught staring . Then she looked back, feeling that pretending that she hadn’t been staring at him wasn’t going to fool anyone and would make her look even more stupid. He was still looking at her, with an expression of vague bemusement. He raised one hand to her and she returned the gesture, her heart racing with excitement. She wondered if he would say anything to her, but the thrum of air-conditioning units, the clatter of the kitchen, the yelling of the kitchen staff below, would have meant he’d have to shout to be heard. Instead he stared thoughtfully into the middle distance, sucking from his cigarette rhythmically before rubbing it out against the brickwork and letting it fall to the ground.
He threw Betty one more look before pulling himself back into his house. It was a strange look: half suspicion, half approval. Then he was gone, the sashes rattling back into place, his face a mere shadow behind the glass again. Betty quickly finished her own cigarette and then glanced at her watch. Ten past midnight. Too late to call Bella, the only person she knew who would care about what had just happened. About the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her in her life. But she had no one to share it with.
Betty did not open her eyes until ten o’clock the following morning. When she did she was painfully aware of the fact that from two thirty to four forty-five the previous night she had lain wide awake listening to the woman downstairs having sex. She had seen the woman downstairs only once or twice since she’d moved in, a small Asian woman who wore a lot of denim and looked rather pinched and anxious. She had not smiled or said hello as they’d passed on the stairs, and Betty had followed her instincts not to force a greeting upon her. She had not looked like a person who would have sex for two and a half hours in the middle of the night. She had not looked the type to scream at the top of her voice or to
Similar Books
