office blocks that surround us, sleek as shark fins, are ablaze with the setting sun, the last of the be-suited City workers making their way towards the tube after another long day.
Martin’s running in front of me, his GAP jacket flapping around his sides.
Me, shouting after him: ‘What are we going to do if he’s already slipped the Rohypnol in? I’ll never forgive myself!’
Him: ‘Now you’re just trying to scare yourself. Worst case scenario is she’s drunk, it’ll be okay.’
Me: ‘But she’s seventeen.’
Him: ‘Well, think when you were seventeen/eighteen. You weren’t a complete idiot, were you? You could look after yourself?’
Me: ‘Yes, but I had you by the time I was eighteen.’
Him: ‘True.’
We’re both gasping for breath by the time we get to Shoreditch House. The doorman – a mountain of a bloke with a blond moustache – eyes us suspiciously.
‘Have you seen a … a girl? Skinny … short, dark hair, probably wearing next to nothing, ridiculous tattoo up her right arm?’
He raises his eyebrows at me.
‘Well, you’ve either seen her or you haven’t?’
‘We think she’s with someone,’ Martin cuts in, hands on knees, trying to get his breath back. I know what’s going through his head: I’m screwed if I’m getting into a fight with this guy. ‘Any idea who that might be?’ The man on the door is of that breed of customer care that doesn’t deem eye contact necessary.
‘Some tosser called Tristan.’
Martin nudges me with his elbow.
‘Tristan Banks. Mr Banks is one of our most respected customers.’
‘I’ll bet he is,’ I say. ‘Look, can we just come in and look for her?’
I try to barge past but the man puts his arm out.
‘This is a members only bar, madam. That means, you have to be a member to come in.’ He looks Martin up and down. ‘Besides, I’m afraid your friend is not dressed appropriately.’
I look at Martin in his faded GAP T-shirt that doesn’t stretch over his belly and the crappy beige GAP jacket that he buys in bulk and I feel a stab of pity and love all rolled into one.
‘Look, to be fair, I didn’t know I’d be coming to Shoreditch House when I set off to my …’ he looks at me. ‘My
friend’s
house today,’ says Martin. ‘With all due respect, what I’m wearing, isn’t really my concern. What
is
my concern, is myfriend’s sister who’s only seventeen and in there with a man she doesn’t know and we’re worried about her. Please let us in.’
Martin lifts his chin up triumphantly and I suddenly want to hug him.
The doorman nods. ‘They’re up on the rooftop,’ he says.
In any other circumstances, this would be awesome. When the lift opens, a vast, Colonial-style lounge area with white-wicker furniture and dark-wood floor greets us. In the middle is a tower of logs, supposedly for the wood-burning stove one won’t be needing during a London heatwave, and behind that, a low, granite bar behind which a girl with an Afro idly shakes her hips to an Ibiza-esque chill-out tune. I scan the clusters of white-leather chairs, where couples, legs entwined, enjoy what is, no doubt, an extortionately priced sundowner, but I can’t see Lexi. Then, behind me I hear Martin say, ‘Jeez, check it out.’
I turn around to see what he’s talking about – behind glass sliding doors, which have been opened, is the rooftop pool. It’s a tropical turquoise and set against the most breathtaking view of a London evening skyline, where cranes are silhouetted like prehistoric creatures and high-rise windows glow and flicker like the lights on a sound system.
Then, a high-pitched squeal of delight and a … ‘Don’t! Me bikini bums are gonna come off!’
My heart stops.
‘She’s in the fucking pool!’
‘What are you on about?’ asks Martin.
‘Lexi. She’s in the swimming pool.’
I unglue my feet and use all my strength to push the doors open. I’m standing there now, Martin behind me, taking on what feels like
Martin’s running in front of me, his GAP jacket flapping around his sides.
Me, shouting after him: ‘What are we going to do if he’s already slipped the Rohypnol in? I’ll never forgive myself!’
Him: ‘Now you’re just trying to scare yourself. Worst case scenario is she’s drunk, it’ll be okay.’
Me: ‘But she’s seventeen.’
Him: ‘Well, think when you were seventeen/eighteen. You weren’t a complete idiot, were you? You could look after yourself?’
Me: ‘Yes, but I had you by the time I was eighteen.’
Him: ‘True.’
We’re both gasping for breath by the time we get to Shoreditch House. The doorman – a mountain of a bloke with a blond moustache – eyes us suspiciously.
‘Have you seen a … a girl? Skinny … short, dark hair, probably wearing next to nothing, ridiculous tattoo up her right arm?’
He raises his eyebrows at me.
‘Well, you’ve either seen her or you haven’t?’
‘We think she’s with someone,’ Martin cuts in, hands on knees, trying to get his breath back. I know what’s going through his head: I’m screwed if I’m getting into a fight with this guy. ‘Any idea who that might be?’ The man on the door is of that breed of customer care that doesn’t deem eye contact necessary.
‘Some tosser called Tristan.’
Martin nudges me with his elbow.
‘Tristan Banks. Mr Banks is one of our most respected customers.’
‘I’ll bet he is,’ I say. ‘Look, can we just come in and look for her?’
I try to barge past but the man puts his arm out.
‘This is a members only bar, madam. That means, you have to be a member to come in.’ He looks Martin up and down. ‘Besides, I’m afraid your friend is not dressed appropriately.’
I look at Martin in his faded GAP T-shirt that doesn’t stretch over his belly and the crappy beige GAP jacket that he buys in bulk and I feel a stab of pity and love all rolled into one.
‘Look, to be fair, I didn’t know I’d be coming to Shoreditch House when I set off to my …’ he looks at me. ‘My
friend’s
house today,’ says Martin. ‘With all due respect, what I’m wearing, isn’t really my concern. What
is
my concern, is myfriend’s sister who’s only seventeen and in there with a man she doesn’t know and we’re worried about her. Please let us in.’
Martin lifts his chin up triumphantly and I suddenly want to hug him.
The doorman nods. ‘They’re up on the rooftop,’ he says.
In any other circumstances, this would be awesome. When the lift opens, a vast, Colonial-style lounge area with white-wicker furniture and dark-wood floor greets us. In the middle is a tower of logs, supposedly for the wood-burning stove one won’t be needing during a London heatwave, and behind that, a low, granite bar behind which a girl with an Afro idly shakes her hips to an Ibiza-esque chill-out tune. I scan the clusters of white-leather chairs, where couples, legs entwined, enjoy what is, no doubt, an extortionately priced sundowner, but I can’t see Lexi. Then, behind me I hear Martin say, ‘Jeez, check it out.’
I turn around to see what he’s talking about – behind glass sliding doors, which have been opened, is the rooftop pool. It’s a tropical turquoise and set against the most breathtaking view of a London evening skyline, where cranes are silhouetted like prehistoric creatures and high-rise windows glow and flicker like the lights on a sound system.
Then, a high-pitched squeal of delight and a … ‘Don’t! Me bikini bums are gonna come off!’
My heart stops.
‘She’s in the fucking pool!’
‘What are you on about?’ asks Martin.
‘Lexi. She’s in the swimming pool.’
I unglue my feet and use all my strength to push the doors open. I’m standing there now, Martin behind me, taking on what feels like
Similar Books
