Forty 2 Days (The Billionaire Banker) (3 page)

Alone, in a toilet reeking of industrial bleach.  

Finally, I lean against the sink exhausted.  I look in the mirror.  What a right mess.  I look horrible.  I blow my nose, wash my puffy face.  My eyes and lips are red and swollen.  I straighten.  I button my blouse to my neck.  I know it is cowardly, but I decide at that moment to scuttle away.  Just walk down the corridor and leave.  The bank has my address and he will find me, but by then I will be different.  I will have repaired the walls of my fortress.  I will be strong.  He cannot hurt me.  But then I remember Billie waiting at home.  

‘
Well, did you get it?’ she will ask.  

I close my eyes.  I’m not going to let her down.  I’m going to say, ‘Yes, I got it.’

I pull open the door and he is standing in the corridor outside, staring at the floor, his hands rammed deep into his trouser pockets.

It is the oddest thing.  It reminds me of the first time we met.  When I had bawled my eyes out in a toilet and come out to find him waiting for me.  He looks up, still frowning.  The door shuts behind me as he strides towards me.  The last time I had six inch heels that lifted me to almost his eye level.  Now I am left staring at his brown throat.

‘
Are you okay?’

I nod.

‘
Tom will take you home.’  

I lift my eyes up to his.  They are strange, liquid with some emotion I cannot comprehend.  ‘No,’ I say.  My voice comes out oddly terse.  I had not meant for it to be like that.  ‘Let’s get this loan business out of the way.’

A shutter comes over his face.  I realize then I have just confirmed his thoughts about me.  I am the gold digger who will do anything for money.  Anybody else would have exploited this opportunity for softness.  I am filled with regret, but it is too late.  He is the tide that is going out and cannot be recalled.  His eyes return to cold and distant.

He nods and we go back to the clinical office.  I sit opposite him and he takes the swivel chair.  It is a parody.  He knows it and so do I.  

He looks down again at my loan application form.  ‘Baby Sorab?’

Oh. My. God.  What the hell am I doing?  I am playing with fire.  I feel my heart thump so loudly in my chest he must surely hear it.  The fog in my brain clears.  It is no longer just me.  Cat and mouse?  I can play this game.  He has nothing to lose.  I have everything to lose.  So I will be the winner.  He will not beat me.  I school my features, shrug carelessly.  And then the lies begin to drop from my mouth so smoothly even I am surprised.  Until today I never realized what an accomplished liar I am.

‘
Yes.  We thought it was a good name for our business.’

‘
Why baby clothes?’

‘
Billie has always been good with colors.  She can put red and pink together and make it look divine, and since, Billie had her baby this year we decided to make baby clothes?’

‘
Billie had a baby?’ he asks, obviously surprised.

I look him in the eye.  ‘Yeah, a beautiful boy,’ I lie straight-faced.

His lips twist derisively.  ‘You girls sure have it figured out.  I suppose she is now being housed courtesy of the British taxpayer?’

I say a silent apology to Billie.  ‘I believe we have had this conversation before.’

‘
OK,’ he says.

‘
OK, what?’  

‘
OK you got the loan.’

‘
Just like that?’

‘
There is one condition.’

I hold my breath.

‘
You do not get the money for the next 42 days.’

‘
Why?’

‘
Because,’ he says softly, ‘for the next 42 days you will exist only for my pleasure.  I plan to gorge on your body until I am sick to my stomach.’

I swallow hard.  ‘Are you going to house me in some apartment again?’

‘
Not some apartment, but the same one as before.’

I lick my lips and surprise myself.  I never knew I could think so fast.  That lies would come so easily to me.  ‘There is one small complication.  Billie goes to see her girlfriend three, no actually, four nights a week and I take care of her son.’

He doesn’t miss a beat.  ‘Tell Laura what you need for the baby—cot, pram, bottle warmers whatever.  The baby can stay at the apartment.’

I stare at him.  ‘Are you serious?’

‘
Do you have a better plan?’

I pause.  My mind racing.  ‘One more thing.  Billie must be able to come to the apartment.’

‘
Done.’

‘
And Jack.  He is the baby’s godfather.’

He looks bored.  ‘Anything else?’

‘
No.’

‘
Fine.  Have you anything planned for tomorrow?’

I shake my head.

‘
Good.  Keep tomorrow free.  Laura will call you to go through the necessary arrangements with you.’

‘
OK, if there is nothing else…’

‘
I’ll walk you out.’

Heads turn to watch us.  Their eyes slide off when they meet mine.  I feel my face flushing.  Hell, I’ll never be able to come back here again.  I see the bank manager hurrying towards us, the material of his trouser legs slapping against his ankles.  Blake raises a finger and he stops abruptly.  Blake pulls open the heavy door and we go into the late summer air.  It is a gray day, though.  Drizzling slightly.

We face each other.  

‘
Why did Billie call her baby Sorab?’

‘
It’s from the great epic Rustam and Sorab.’

‘
Yes, I am aware where it is from, but why did she choose it?’

‘
It was a tribute to my mother.  It was my mother’s favorite story.’

‘
Hmmm… That is the most admirable quality in you.  Your unshakeable loyalty towards your mother.’

For a moment we look at each other.  I realize that I have never seen him in the light of day.  Not even in this dull light.  Strange.  We have always met during the day at the apartment and only ever gone out at dusk or at night.  And in the light of the day his eyes are storm-blue with moody gray and black flecks.  A gust of wind lifts his hair away from his head and deposits it on his forehead.  Unthinkingly, I reach a hand out to touch the unruly skein, but he jerks his head back as if dodging a wasp.  

‘
This time you won’t fool me,’ he bites out.

We stare at each other.  Me, astonished by how close to the surface his fury lives, and he, contemptuously.  My hand drops.  I feel exhausted.  There is a ton of bricks inside my chest.  Cotton wool inside my head.  I can’t think straight.  I look down the road at the bus stand.  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ I say.

‘
Here’s Tom,’ he says, as a Bentley pulls up along the curb.

I shake my head.  ‘Thanks, but I’ll take the bus.’

‘
Tom will drop you off,’ he insists, and I have a flashback of him from the first night we met at the restaurant.  That same inbred sense of confidence and superiority.  

‘
No,’ I snap.  ‘Our contract doesn’t start until tomorrow.  So today I’ll decide my mode of transport,’ and I swing away from him.

His hand shoots out and grasps my wrist.  ‘I will pick you up and put you in the car if necessary.  You decide.’

I feel anger bubbling inside me.  ‘And I’ll call the police.’

He actually laughs.  ‘After everything I have told you about the system—that’s your answer?’

I sag.  ‘Of course, who will believe me if I claim that a Barrington tried to force me to take a lift.’

‘
Please, Blake.’

‘
Very well.  Tom will go with you on the bus.’

I don’t argue.  I simply turn around, open the car door, get in, slam it shut and stare straight ahead.  

‘
Good morning, Miss Bloom.  It’s good to see you again,’ Tom greets, pretending not to notice my puffy face.

‘
It’s good to see you too, Tom.’

‘
How have you been?’ he asks as the car pulls away.

‘
Fine,’ I reply, and twist my neck back to look at Blake.  He is standing on the sidewalk where I left him.  His hands are hanging by his sides and he is staring at the moving car.  On the street teeming with some of the most dispossessed people in Britain he stands out.  Tall, impressive, separate from the crowd, a ruler; and yet he looks alone and abandoned.  I remember what he told me a long time ago.  

I trust no one.  No one.

T
he traffic is bad and the car crawls slowly down Kilburn High Street.  I stare blankly out of the window.  I know I’m not dreaming this.  This is actually happening and yet...it has a dreamlike quality.  The street looks the same only there are many people staring at the car and into it, at me.  Their eyes seem unfriendly.  The rich are resented here.  I feel restless and disturbed.  I need a bit of time to think.  Walking always helps. I ask Tom to drop me off by the shops.

‘
Are you sure, Miss?  I don’t mind waiting, while you pop in.  I’m free until much later.’

‘
Thanks, but I’ll be fine, Tom.  I’ll probably see you tomorrow, anyway.’

Tom nods.  ‘All right then.  Mind how you go.’

I enter the newsagent and buy a bottle of vodka and a packet of cigarettes for Billie.  Then I walk home slowly, taking the long way home so I pass by my old house.  I stand on the street in the drizzle and look up at it.  At the blue door where we once lived, my mother and I, for so many years.  Some of them happy, but most of them filled with stress and worry and fear.  Now she was gone.  

For a moment I stand there, my face upturned, pretending that my mother is still there.  That I could, if I wanted to, simply go up those stairs, put my key in the door, open it, and find her in the kitchen.  Bald and thin to the point of skeletal, but happy to see me.  Then the blue door opens and a child about seven years old comes out.  She has brown hair cut very short.

From the interior a woman’s voice yells, ‘And I want change from the fiver.’

The girl doesn’t answer.  Simply slams shut the door and runs to the top of the stairs.  She is so cocky she reminds me of Billie.  I hear her shoes clattering down the stairs.  She runs past me, dirty stained top, yellow shorts and brown legs.  And suddenly, I am racked by a sense of deep nostalgia for those times when Billie and I ran free.  Summer days.  Fingers sticky with ice lollies.  Not a single responsibility in sight.  I watch the girl turn down the road towards the shops.  Then I slowly begin to walk towards the tower block flats where Billie and I now live.  

It is a horrible place, far, far worse than this small, friendly block.  If Blake saw where we live now, he would literally have a heart attack.  All his worst nightmares are realized here.  Prostitutes work the underpass and there are fights and stabbings when the pubs clear at night.  Their drunken shouting and cursing floats up to our flat.  Inside our block it is no better.  The lifts perpetually smell of stale urine and the stairwells are littered with blood-filled hypodermic syringes and used condoms.  Kids play among the needles in the morning.  

I live here, but in my heart I am absolutely determined that it will only be temporary.  I intend to work hard, make our business work and, hopefully, by the time Sorab is old enough to walk the three of us will be out of here.  A sign says no ball games and no dumping of rubbish.  In defiance the place is littered with empty cans and someone has simply tipped a badly stained mattress over one of the long balcony walkways of the tower.

I pass the children playing on the concourse.

‘
Hey, Lana, we saw you get out of a big car by the shops.  Whose car is it?’

‘
Never you mind,’ I tell them tartly.

‘
Somebody’s got a sugar daddy,’ they sing, and I am surprised anew by how clued up these kids are.  At their age, my innocence was complete, my childhood totally unsoiled by any adult knowledge.

One of them breaks from the group and sidles up to me.  ‘Go on, give us a pound to buy some sweets,’ she cajoles.  She has a head full of bouncing brown curls.

I look down at her.  ‘Does your mother know you are begging for money?’

‘
Yeah,’ she pipes up immediately, standing her ground without the least trace of embarrassment.

I look into her eyes and feel sad.  I know her mother.  A hard-faced woman with six kids.  Each one from a different father, all dirty and unkempt.  For a split second I consider teaching her not to beg, to have pride, and then I give up.  I know in my heart it is pointless. I wish a different future for her, but she is already infected by the generation before her.  In her round, beautiful face walks the shadow of a drop-out, perhaps even an alcoholic.  A blight on society through no fault of her own.  I reach into my purse and give her a pound.  She grasps it in her small, hot palm and runs off in the direction of the shops, calling after her. ‘Thanks, Lana.’  

I skirt the weeds and step onto the cracked concrete.  Moodily I kick a Coke can out of my path and round the block.  I look up to the second floor of the ugly gray block and see Billie standing on the long walkway balcony outside our door.  She is smoking a cigarette and leaning against the metal railing.  One of her bare feet is curled around a metal bar.  Her hair is no longer white, but flaming red.  She changed the color and the style last week when she broke up with Leticia.  It is now cut very close to her head on one side and falls longer on the other.  She must have just got out of the bath, for her hair is still wet and slicked to her head. She does not see me.  

I run up the smelly stairs and step on to our level.  She looks up from her contemplative stare and watches me.  I step over discarded toys, a tricycle, a plastic bucket and spade, and then I am standing in front of her.

I grin.  She kills her cigarette on the metal railing.  I fish out the vodka.  She grins back.  Hers is real, mine is not.