experience several multiple orgasms in quick succession and to bang the walls with her fists every single time she did so. Whoever she had been fucking (and there really seemed to Betty to be no other word for it) had left the building around three minutes after the woman’s last orgasm, stamping noisily down the stairs and banging the front door very loudly in their wake.
Shortly after this the bin men had arrived.
Nobody had warned Betty about bin men before she’d decided to rent a flat in Soho. Nobody told her that in Soho the bin men came every single morning. And that they came early. That they whistled and they hollered and they bantered with each other in sonorous East End accents. That they slammed doors and banged lids and threw entire pieces of furniture into the back end of their growling truck without even a hint of restraint.
At five thirty Betty had finally fallen asleep, only to be awoken an hour later by the first of the market traders arriving in their vans. More banging of doors, more cockney hollering and inconsiderate moving about of furniture and crates.
She had considered getting up at this point, heading for the fire escape and an early morning cigarette, starting the day, but had somehow found her way back to sleep before a police car, pulling up very loudly, with much screeching of siren and squealing of tyres, had brought her abruptly back to awakeness. She pulled back her curtains and watched as two policemen left the doors of their car wide open and slowly sauntered around the corner into Peter Street, watched by a dozen pairs of curious eyes.
Betty threw on a cardigan and her trainers and dashed downstairs. John Brightly was talking to some hip-looking dude about a John Otway twelve-inch disc. He glanced up curiously as Betty appeared in the doorway exuding urgency and vague panic. Betty forgot her usual tendency to play it cool and calm in front of John Brightly and looked at him desperately.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, looking at the blue light still flashing on and off on top of the empty police car.
John Brightly gazed at her with confusion. ‘What?’ he said, with a furrowed brow.
‘There?’ she said. ‘Dom Jones’s place. The police?’
John looked again and scratched the back of his neck. ‘No idea,’ he said, before turning back to his customer and addressing him in a kind of compensatory way as though saying: ‘I do apologise for the mad woman with the blond hair … now where were we?’
Betty sighed impatiently and headed around the corner where she found the two policemen giving a member of the attendant paparazzi a warning. She listened for a while, keen to discover what had been happening, and as she stood and watched she saw one of the policemen knock on the front door of Dom Jones’s house. She rooted herself to the spot. The intercom crackled to life. She heard the vague outline of a male voice and then heard the door buzz open. The policeman pushed open the door and as she stared she caught a tiny glimpse of him, in jeans and a checked shirt. She saw he looked anxious and tired. And then the policeman was pulled inside and the door was closed again.
As the door closed, Betty felt something strange happening to her. It was an ache. It started in her heart, and ended in her stomach. It was an ache of pity and sadness, but more than that, it was an ache of longing and desire. He looked so beaten up. His marriage in shreds. His children in another house. Trapped in an empty house by a sentry of rabid photographers. His world burst open like a bag of garbage for everyone to see the sordid contents.
She wanted to take him home and care for him and make him smile. She wanted to make everything better.
She thought for a brief moment of the sleazy stills in the
Mirror
, the back of the girl’s head buried between his legs. But then she thought, God, he was married to Amy Metz. She’d been pregnant for about three years, non-stop. She had awful friends.
Shortly after this the bin men had arrived.
Nobody had warned Betty about bin men before she’d decided to rent a flat in Soho. Nobody told her that in Soho the bin men came every single morning. And that they came early. That they whistled and they hollered and they bantered with each other in sonorous East End accents. That they slammed doors and banged lids and threw entire pieces of furniture into the back end of their growling truck without even a hint of restraint.
At five thirty Betty had finally fallen asleep, only to be awoken an hour later by the first of the market traders arriving in their vans. More banging of doors, more cockney hollering and inconsiderate moving about of furniture and crates.
She had considered getting up at this point, heading for the fire escape and an early morning cigarette, starting the day, but had somehow found her way back to sleep before a police car, pulling up very loudly, with much screeching of siren and squealing of tyres, had brought her abruptly back to awakeness. She pulled back her curtains and watched as two policemen left the doors of their car wide open and slowly sauntered around the corner into Peter Street, watched by a dozen pairs of curious eyes.
Betty threw on a cardigan and her trainers and dashed downstairs. John Brightly was talking to some hip-looking dude about a John Otway twelve-inch disc. He glanced up curiously as Betty appeared in the doorway exuding urgency and vague panic. Betty forgot her usual tendency to play it cool and calm in front of John Brightly and looked at him desperately.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, looking at the blue light still flashing on and off on top of the empty police car.
John Brightly gazed at her with confusion. ‘What?’ he said, with a furrowed brow.
‘There?’ she said. ‘Dom Jones’s place. The police?’
John looked again and scratched the back of his neck. ‘No idea,’ he said, before turning back to his customer and addressing him in a kind of compensatory way as though saying: ‘I do apologise for the mad woman with the blond hair … now where were we?’
Betty sighed impatiently and headed around the corner where she found the two policemen giving a member of the attendant paparazzi a warning. She listened for a while, keen to discover what had been happening, and as she stood and watched she saw one of the policemen knock on the front door of Dom Jones’s house. She rooted herself to the spot. The intercom crackled to life. She heard the vague outline of a male voice and then heard the door buzz open. The policeman pushed open the door and as she stared she caught a tiny glimpse of him, in jeans and a checked shirt. She saw he looked anxious and tired. And then the policeman was pulled inside and the door was closed again.
As the door closed, Betty felt something strange happening to her. It was an ache. It started in her heart, and ended in her stomach. It was an ache of pity and sadness, but more than that, it was an ache of longing and desire. He looked so beaten up. His marriage in shreds. His children in another house. Trapped in an empty house by a sentry of rabid photographers. His world burst open like a bag of garbage for everyone to see the sordid contents.
She wanted to take him home and care for him and make him smile. She wanted to make everything better.
She thought for a brief moment of the sleazy stills in the
Mirror
, the back of the girl’s head buried between his legs. But then she thought, God, he was married to Amy Metz. She’d been pregnant for about three years, non-stop. She had awful friends.
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