I Came to Find a Girl (4 page)

In the bar, Jason was having a beer with Clint, the kitchen porter.

“Are you gonna join us, Mia?” Jason asked.

“Not tonight, sorry.”

“You always have a drink.”

“I can’t, I’m meeting someone.”

Jason nodded as if letting me go.

And so I left, expecting Jack Flood to be there, waiting, but I couldn’t see him.

The dark street was noisy. It was a thoroughfare that led to various clubs: Indigo, Oceana, Freedom, a neon-lit kebab shop and other fast food joints. There was a group of lads in shirts and jeans on their way elsewhere. Don’t notice me, I thought, wanting to melt into the chocolate woodwork that framed the curved glass at the entrance to Saviour’s.
I should go
. Jack Flood was a no-show, but then I heard my name.
It must be Jack. Where is he?

Groups of lads and girls passed one another, shouting and laughing. I noticed a cab across the road, its engine running as its back door opened. “Mia, over here.”

I hadn’t expected a car. I crossed the street. “Why do we need a cab?”

“We can avoid the drunken idiots. Come on, jump in.”

“I thought we were going for a drink?”

“I know a great place, come on.”

“Hi Mia,” Jenny said, as she crossed nearby.

“Jenny.” I waved, and she came over. “This is Jack Flood. He’s an artist – quite famous,” I said. “Jenny’s one of the chefs.”

Jack said, “Great meal, I enjoyed it.”

“We’re just off for a drink,” I told Jenny. “See you next week, Jen.” I climbed in the back of the cab next to Jack and it took off immediately as if the driver had already been instructed where to go.

A glittery blue elephant hung from the rear-view mirror.
Lucky?
I thought, as I watched it gently sway.

Initially, Jack didn't say a thing. I felt awkward and racked my brain for something to say. “I liked your show,” I said, though I hadn’t been that keen. “Where did it all come from?”

“Didn’t we have this conversation?” He stared ahead.

“I don’t think so.”

“You grilled me at the private view.”

“Hardly a grilling.”

“Your tutor had to step in and save me.”

“You’re kidding right?”

He smiled.

“I like the untitled piece. Why is it untitled?”

“Words can sometimes pin a work down too precisely.”

“You weren’t just being lazy then?”

“A lot of thought went into settling on ‘Untitled’. Who do you like art-wise?”

“That’s hard. There are so many: Peter Doig, Sarah Lucas, Rachel Whiteread, Gary Hume. I love Gary Hume – do you know him?”

He nodded. “Some of them are neighbours of mine.”

“Where do you live?”

“Spitalfields.”

“You have a studio there?”

“I have the whole floor of an old wire factory.”

“Oh yes, it’s on your card – The Wireworks, Quaker Street...”

“That’s it. You must visit – bring your work. Let me have a look.”

“Really?” I said, unsure whether he meant it or not, and if he did – would it help?

“What sort of work do you do?” he asked.

“It changes, I’m not sure I’ve found my thing yet. I draw a lot.”

“Is drawing not passé?”

“I don’t think so.”

He smiled, and said, “What do you draw?” And I was about to say, anything really: what’s outside my window, people, me – when the cab stopped.

“Thank you, my friend,” Jack said.

“What’s this?” We were outside the Merchant’s House Hotel.

“I need to change. One of those silly tarts spilt beer over me.”

“What – deliberately?”

“No, though you never know.”

“Who are they?”

“Tarts.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. They were with Drake, the art collector. He recently divorced. It was acrimonious to say the least.”

“And now he has to pay?”

“He prefers it that way after his wife took him to the cleaners.”

“They’re really prostitutes?”

“Yep.”

“My God.”

“It’s not unusual.”

“I guess not, it’s just...” I didn’t want to sound naïve but I’d never seen the high-class sort before. I was used to watching them outside my window, but they were all drug addicts and alcoholics, or so I assumed, and that meant they had little choice.

“It’s whatever turns you on in this world – you’ll learn. Anyway, come on, I need to change.”

The elephant hanging from the rear-view mirror stilled. “I’ll just wait here in the cab,” I said.

“Maciek has to go.” He passed the driver some cash. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

The driver nodded and turned his pitted face in a way that let me know I had to get out.

I slammed the car door behind me. “Sorry,” I said, and the driver looked away.

“Have you been here before?” Flood asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

“You’ll like it.” The Merchant’s House Hotel was
the
place to stay, and I was curious. Jack Flood stood back. “After you.” He gestured for me to take the revolving door into the reception. It had hot pink, paisley wallpaper that eventually gave way to pared-down elegance. It was a picture of minimalist chic within its Georgian shell: pale limestone floors, framed architectural prints, leather Barcelona chairs, Perspex coffee tables and huge exotic floral displays, while the bar was a black-panelled room with club chairs and glass coffee tables with mixed salted nuts in little white bowls.

“I’m sorry, sir, we’re about to close.” The tall, lean barman was about my age. “We can do you drinks in your room?” he said.

“You have Cristal?”

“Certainly sir, can I take your room number?”

I had no intention of going to his room. “Hold on,” I said and stopped.

“This way.” Jack ignored my hesitancy and walked ahead, turning the corner into the stairway. I waited a moment before curiosity got the better of me. I hurried and caught up as Jack opened the door to room 12. It was the sort of hotel suite I’d only ever seen in magazines. There was a huge crystal chandelier, a large bed with a dark padded-leather headboard, a bronze satin bedspread, a couple of velvet club chairs and a pile of camera equipment on a side table.

“What’s all this equipment? It’s like you have a camera for every day of the week.”

“Something like that.”

“This room is amazing. We’re still going out though, aren’t we?”

“I just thought you’d be more comfortable having a drink while I change.” He gestured to one of the two armchairs. “Please, take a seat and enjoy a small drink before we go.”

The barman rapped on the door and Jack directed the drinks tray to a side table. “Shall I open the champagne, sir?”

“No, it’s fine. Thank you.” Jack tipped him and showed him out. “More fun to pop the cork yourself,” he said, smiling as he passed me a flute. “Cheers,” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting down opposite. For a moment our knees lightly touched. “Have you had Cristal before?”

“No. Isn’t it what footballers and rappers like Puff Daddy or P Diddy or whatever he’s called drinks?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“It’s what Kylie likes; she mentioned it in an interview once.” Flood laughed – and I felt myself redden. “I sound celebrity-obsessed – I’m really not.”

“I’m not going to judge you,” he smiled. “You have lovely pale skin.”

“It takes me ages to tan. I don’t really bother.”

“We couldn’t be friends if you did.”

“What?” I thought he was joking but he didn’t smile.

“Help yourself to more champagne. I’m going to get changed.”

“Then we’re going out?”

“Mia, relax or you’ll never have any fun in this world. I won’t be long, and then we’ll move on, I promise.” Flood selected a fresh shirt from his wardrobe, entered the bathroom and shut the door.

Why am I making such a fuss?
I took another sip of champagne.
I’m going to tell Kelly and Tamzin that Cristal’s overrated
. I flicked through a glossy magazine on “Best British Hotels”, impressed at the Merchant’s House Hotel’s inclusion.
Who’d have thought I’d get to go here tonight?
I drank a little more then got up to have a nose round the room. I looked through the CDs and put on Norah Jones, then checked out the free stationery, twirling a silver pencil stamped with the Merchant’s House Hotel between my palms. For a moment I wanted to keep it, but then I thought better of it. What would I say if Jack noticed?
Oh sod it
. I slipped it into my bag then moved over to one of the tall multi-pane windows.

Outside, a hen party was shrieking up the road. They were dressed in pink wigs and plastic tiaras while the bride had an ‘L’-plate pinned to her back. “Last chance to knob our Laura,” one of her mates shouted. How naff, I thought, and turned away but I must have moved too quickly as I felt odd, a little light-headed, like I’d drunk too much. I’ve only had one glass
.
I looked down at suede brown boots.
Are they my feet?
My vision blurred and I tried to focus.
My head? What’s happening?

Jack Flood was standing in the bathroom doorway with a brown towel round his waist.
Why is he smiling? I feel funny
–
how embarrassing
. A phone rang – a mobile.
Is that mine? Where did I leave it?
I’d only had my bag a moment ago. The ring-tone stopped. There was muffled talking. I tried to concentrate, and looked back at Jack, but he was all blurry. What’s the matter with me?

Four

I lifted my head.
Oh God, I’m dribbling. How come I’m lying face down?
I never lie on my front. I lifted my head a little more. It hurt.

What is going on?

My cheek was wet where I’d been lying. And as I moved away from the dark damp patch my spit had made on the satin bedspread I looked back at myself – naked.
Oh my God, shit. What is going on?

The earnest words of a Sky News correspondent resonated in the background.
Where is that coming from?
There was a plasma TV in the corner, and seated in a dark armchair, dressed in a hotel-issue white towelling robe was Jack Flood.

I grabbed at the corner of the bedspread to cover myself. I checked my watch.
Jesus!
It had gone four.
How did that happen?

“How come I fell asleep?” I touched my forehead, confused by the throbbing pain.
I don’t get headaches
.

Jack Flood gazed trance-like at the TV. “Just a spoilsport – one of those girls that talks a good game but can’t take the pace.”

What?
A thundering wave of panic washed over me, and my heart raced, as I shifted off the bed still wrapped in the bedspread. I stumbled trying to find my feet. I felt dizzy and disorientated. I shuffled round the room searching for my clothes. I couldn’t remember undressing.
Who undressed me?
My jeans were scrunched on the floor. I almost fell as I tried to retrieve them.

“Steady,” he said.

“Where’s my underwear?”

“I’m thinking of that Sarah Lucas piece right now –
Two Fried Eggs and a Kebab
.” An image of that artwork – literally two fried eggs and a kebab on a table representing a reclining naked female body with emphasis on her genitalia – flashed through my mind.

Bastard
–
what a bastard
. I gave up on the missing underwear and struggled into my jeans, mixing up the legs like a three-year-old
. Shit, shit
. I tried to fasten them, but the metal button had gone. I looked at the floor. I couldn’t see it anywhere. “I need a cab. Call me a cab.”

“I’ll call Maciek, if you like? Where do you live?”

Don’t say
. It dawned on me I mustn’t say.
He mustn’t know any more about me.

“Forget it, I’m getting dressed.” I gritted my teeth, fists clenched, in an attempt to stem the panic that kept rising within me.

“I can see that.” He looked me up and down, his face all sneery and hateful. “Here, make yourself decent.” He threw over my Blondie T-shirt.

“My boots – where are my boots?”

He looked round slowly and pointed to the side of his chair.

I’d have to walk over near him.
Do I need my boots?
Flood raised his chin and eyed me like it was a challenge – are you brave enough to reclaim your boots? It was a long way home.
I have to get them. I love those boots. Mum bought them.

“This is a hotel. I can scream the place down.”

He shrugged. “Go ahead. They’ll assume you’re another of my whores.”

Fuck it. Fuck him
. I lunged for my boots and quickly edged round the side of the room as far from him as possible. And the door handle was finally in my hand. I turned it. It wouldn’t open. “Open it, why won’t it open?
”

He rose from his chair, and his eyes met mine. Slowly his lean, tall frame approached, as he let the robe hang lose.

I looked away – it was obvious.
Look anywhere but at that
.

But Flood’s smirk told me he knew I’d seen it.

He was right beside me. What will he do? Every muscle in my body tensed, as I moved back. But that was no good. He was blocking the door.

“Let me out
.
”

“Allow me.” He turned a latch – one I should’ve been able to work out myself.

Whatever, I glanced back briefly and felt my heart bash against my ribs. There was a small camera mounted on a tripod in the corner of the room.
How hadn’t I noticed that? Was it there before? Fuck, don’t say that cunt filmed me?
But there was no way I could go back in and investigate. I was out of there, running down the corridor.

“Till next time, Mia.”

As I got to the other side of the heavy fire door a primeval sound escaped me. It was something between a muffled scream and an involuntary grunt – ugly, subhuman – the sound of an embattled, desperate animal.

I stuffed my feet into my boots and found the stairs, taking them two, three at a time. I lost my footing and stumbled.
Get up. Get out.
I felt sick. Gripping the banister tightly, I pulled myself up and stood swaying for a moment before I continued down the narrow stairs concentrating hard not to fall. Another fire door and I made it to reception where it took everything I had to find my way through only once lurching towards the bright pink wallpaper.