I Came to Find a Girl (7 page)

I cleared away while Donna cashed up and split the tips between us.

“What a load of shit for all that grief,” she said.

“How are we doing, girls?” Vivienne turned up, G and T in hand. “Oh Mia, do something about your hair – tie it back properly please.”

Don’t employ art students if you don’t like how we look, I thought.

“Any room at the inn?” Warren sat on the bench next to me and Jason pulled up a chair. “We had some right fuckers in tonight.”

“The customer is always right,” Vivienne said.

“Yeah, and I’m Wayne Rooney,” Warren said.

“Ugly enough,” Donna said. “What about Tia-Maria-man – he was giving you some grief.”

“They do it to feel better about themselves,” I said.

“Here’s Jenny.” Warren tapped the other side of the bench beside him but Jenny sat down next to Donna.

“Are you going to get yourself a drink, Jenny?” Vivienne asked.

“I’ve got to get going in a minute.” She gripped the strap of her Nike kitbag as if she wanted to leave immediately.

“Come on, Jen, have a drink,” Jason said.

“I’m training tomorrow.”

“How far are you running this time?” I asked.

“Ten miles.”

“Is that supposed to be fun?”

“I’m doing the Midlands marathon next month.”

“Rather you than me,” Donna said. “You must be a masochist.”

“She’s good,” Jason said.

How would he know? Something is going on.
I didn’t want to hang around anymore. “I better get going,” I said.

“Me too,” Donna said, and Jenny stood up.

“Are you okay getting back, girls?” Vivienne asked, which was a joke because we all knew she wasn’t prepared to shell out for staff taxis.

“I heard about that murder,” Warren said. “That’s near you, isn’t it, Mia?”

“Why mention that? Cheers, Warren, I’ll worry even more now.” I didn’t need reminding. Days earlier, I’d even passed the bundle of wilting bouquets marking the spot where she was found.

Donna frowned. “That poor woman.”

We left then, and walked up Victoria Street towards Market Square.

“How did it go with that artist the other night?” Donna asked. She was being a friend. Friends ask questions. But I didn’t want this conversation.
What to say?
I felt sick and turned away, as if checking the traffic before we crossed a road. “Where did he take you?” She wasn’t going to drop it.

“The bar at the Merchant’s House Hotel – I only stayed for one drink,” I said, which was true enough. I saw it then – the hotel room with its dishevelled bed and me naked as I desperately searched for my clothes and boots. “He’s too old and smarmy.” I made a face and changed the subject. “What about you, Jenny? Are you seeing anyone? You never tell us anything.”

Again, she gripped the strap of her kitbag. “I’m always working.”

“What about your nights off?” I had to know. Jenny was so pretty with poker-straight hair to her waist. If she weren’t so shy she’d be deadly.

“I’m usually at running club.”

“Is there no one there?”

“They’re all too old.”

“She wouldn’t tell us anyway,” Donna said.

“I reckon you’ll end up falling for another chef,” I said.

Jenny looked at me quizzically. I’d guessed right, something was going on between her and Jason. She smiled and looked away and before I could ask anything more Donna interrupted. We’d reached their bus stop and the moment passed.

I left them then to walk on alone, too impatient to wait for a bus or tram. And, as always, I worked my keys between my fingers.

It had gone midnight by the time I got back. I looked over my shoulder before I opened the door. The house was dark. There wasn’t a sound. I listened at Slug’s door – nothing. Tamzin’s was slightly ajar – again nothing. Upstairs it was obvious no one was about. Spencer had left his light on and there were pots of wet paint on the windowsill.
Lazy shit
–
never cleans up.

Kelly’s door was shut. She would have locked it. I unlocked my own, went in and locked it from the inside. I was too buzzy to sleep. Service does that to you – all that running around after people
. Sod it; make coffee.

But there was no milk.
From a restaurant stuffed with fresh produce to this
.
Black coffee it is then
. I returned to my room, relocked the door and sat on my bed.
What’s on?
I flicked through a chat show, two American comedies, the end of a film and the weather and went back to the film, thinking I might recognise it.

Turn off the light, look out the window
–
it might be more interesting.

Across the street, leaning against the wall of the Asian family’s house was Girl-with-braids dressed in a micro-skirt and leather jacket. She checked her nails and paced up and down past three or four houses.

A white car pulled up. It had lettering on the side – probably a cab.

“Go fuck yourself, arsehole!” She stepped back and away, while the car stayed put.
Should I do something?

The cab pulled away and Girl-with-braids gave it the finger.
Good for you, girl. Don’t worry, I’ll watch out for you.
Girl-with-braids walked off down the street and disappeared out of sight.

I withdrew from the window, found my sketchbook and wrote “Girl-with-braids, white car,” and the date and time. Then I looked around, straining to see. The room was dark apart from the telly’s flickering brightness. I moved towards the mirror that hung on the chimney breast, took off my T-shirt and jeans and kicked them aside. Mismatched underwear –
there’s a surprise
– pale pink knickers and a black bra.

I switched on my Anglepoise lamp and gathered paints, water and some heavy textured paper, and placed a drawing board on the floor. I unhooked the mirror from the wall, leant it against the unlit gas fire, and knelt in front of it.

The blank paper’s whiteness glowed, appearing vast and daunting
. Can I do this? Can I make it work?
I took a medium sable-hair brush and ran its soft bristles over the bare skin of my thigh and dipped it in water, and Naples yellow, more water, titanium white and a spot of carmine red.

The translucent colour punctured the paper’s whiteness as I sketched a fluid outline. I thought of the eels in the kitchen, and it was as if the delicate pools of welling, spreading watercolour were skinning me alive as the hard shell I felt forced to wear each day dissolved before me. There I am, that’s me: twitching and unsure, I thought, as I let more drops of watery colour drip and spread like the unshed tears I was constantly battling to withhold.

Eight

The woman found dead on Forest Road East had been named as Loretta Peters. She was pretty with a tanned, smiling holiday face shown in an old snap from years before, and she was a mother of two, as well as someone’s ‘lovely, bubbly’ daughter until a boyfriend introduced her to drugs.

Since Loretta’s murder, there had been no further squabbles about watching the news. Kelly shushed us so she could hear. “They’ve found another body,” she said.

“It must be a serial killer.” Spencer sat forward.

As did Slug. “Loretta – she’s not bad. You wouldn’t think she’s a prostitute.”

“I don’t recognise her,” I said.

“Is there something you need to tell us, Mia?” Slug said.

“Have you not noticed them outside our front door, Slug? We do pass them every day. You must recognise some of them?”

“I don’t care what they look like as long as they’re kneeling.”

“Slug!” Kelly threw a magazine at him.

“Are you working tonight?” Kelly asked.

“I’m not going,” I said.

“That’s not like you.”

“I’m phoning in sick.”

“Yeah, I would,” Tamzin said. “Say you’ve got a migraine.”

It was a Friday, which meant Neon. Every day of the week had its associated club nights. Friday was Neon, the Forum or Lost & Found and my housemates favoured Neon. I didn’t like it but as I usually worked that night the choice wasn’t mine.

There was the usual shouting, drunken queue for admittance.

“Go on, Mia, get in there,” Spencer said, as the doorman lowered the rope for the next batch of club-goers. We were in, and immediately I joined another queue for the ladies, as we’d already been drinking heavily at Ruby’s. The toilets were packed: girls in skimpy tops, with competing perfumes, vied for cubicles and mirror-space, reapplying lipstick that didn’t need to be reapplied. It wasn’t easy to gain the space to wash my hands and I was glad to get out, back to the bar area, where Kelly had bought me a vodka.

“Come on, let’s go upstairs to the balcony,” she said. It was a good place to go to look around and check out who was there. But it was just as busy as downstairs. We walked around and stopped briefly, holding on to the chrome railings, as we looked down below. There was no one I liked, though I could see Spencer at the bar below ordering drinks, while Tamzin was up against a pillar kissing some rugby-type, the size of a small wardrobe.

The music changed tempo. “Bee Gees!” Kelly pulled at my arm, but I hated the Seventies slot – so predictable. Tamzin turned up (minus wardrobe-man), and they rushed to the dance-floor, doing exaggerated disco moves to Staying Alive.

Bored, I looked around even though I didn’t expect to see anyone I’d like.
Hold on...
There was a guy with jet-black hair and heavy-hooded eyes, like a Raphael self-portrait, updated and come back to life. He was too beautiful but even so... “Are you French?” I said.

The heavy-hooded eyes looked my way. “’ow did you know?”

“I’ve seen you before.” It was true. He’d been in Saviour’s but he didn’t ask where I’d seen him. He must have been accustomed to being admired from afar.

“What’s your name?” I asked, taking in the fine features and olive skin.

“Bert.”

“That doesn’t sound very French.”

“It’s Bertrand.” He then asked my name.

“Do you like it here?” I asked, glancing around at the tired chrome fittings and royal blue carpet.

“The whisky is very cheap.”

“But it’s a bit crap, isn’t it?”

“The music’s not so good.”

Our small talk continued until someone distracted him.

“He was nice.” Kelly had returned from the dance-floor. “Where’s he gone?”

“His friend dragged him off somewhere.”

“He’ll be back,” Kelly said, but I wasn’t so sure.

“I need another drink; do you want one?” I went to the bar, knocking back more vodka, then a few minutes later Kelly nudged me. Bert was there, sitting on some steps at the far side of the bar. And when he saw me look over he stood up and waved.
God he’s beautiful
–
can he really like me?

“You’re in there,” Kelly nudged.

And so it was that within a few hours he was walking me home, drinking my coffee, easing me back on my bed, gently pushing my hair away from my face as if he couldn’t see enough.
Can I do this?

He kissed my neck, my shoulder, and right breast, as his hand slid behind the waistband of my jeans. I could barely breathe let alone speak. I had wanted this. I had wanted him. I liked him. Only, it was as if I were outside myself, like watching a soap opera sex scene that went on and on to underline the fact two characters are an item. I moved my hips and feigned desire, kissed, licked, nibbled and faintly scratched – all the while willing him to come so it would stop.

He did stop and he lay still, still inside me. I wanted him off. I curled myself away from him, only for him to follow me across the bed, kissing the back of my neck.
What made me think I could cope with a stranger in my bed?

How did I manage that?
I asked myself the next morning. I’d been inebriated of course. My head hurt.
I need to stop drinking so much. It’s not helping
. He lay there filling my single bed, his renaissance profile highlighted by a shaft of light eking through a crack in the curtains. I was staring and he must have sensed it.

“I’ve got to go,” I said, though I didn’t really – I just wanted him out.

He shook a little as he got up, his lean, defined torso rock god material. “Can you sing?” I asked.

“No. Why?” He bent down to sort the clothes he’d dumped by my bedside. I gave him only moments to dress – didn’t offer coffee, didn’t offer breakfast.

“I’ve got to go this way,” I said, after leading him downstairs and out the front door onto the pavement. “What about you?” He pointed in the opposite direction and smiled, his face a little confused. I don’t think any girl had ever turfed him out before.

Nine

It was just like any other Sunday, the day I heard. I’d had a hangover all day and was desperate for food. I checked my kitchen cupboard. “Dried pasta and tuna – I can’t believe that’s all I’ve got,” I said to Kelly.

“Nightmare,” she said, without looking up from her copy of
Vogue
.

“Do you think
Vogue
’s advertisers realise it’s bought by penniless students?”

Kelly shrugged. “I’m going downstairs.”

I flicked through the Student Cookbook. There had to be something I could make with these few ingredients. Tuna bake was the best option, but I’d need some Campbell’s Condensed Mushroom Soup.

I found the few coins I had left and walked down the road, glancing up at the three-storey terraces.
Are any of the windows watching?
It felt like they were.

On the wall at the crossroads sat a young girl – one I hadn’t seen before – in a crop top, short skirt, bare legs and trainers. Her hair was in gelled ringlets and her hands tight in her pockets. She looked fed up. No one was about. Punters would surely be home with their families eating Sunday roasts. And besides, hadn’t she heard about Loretta and the other woman? She shouldn’t be out.
What is she doing?

Around the next corner, I entered the tiny over-filled shop. There were only two aisles, so I soon located a dusty tin of soup. It was too dark to see a Use-By date but I guessed it would be okay. The shopkeeper checked my carefully counted out coins and nodded as his wife stood silently by in her sari and thick cardigan.

“Hey, pretty girl,” a guy shouted from a third-floor window in the house next to the shop. He always said something or else he just went ‘psst’. I kept walking. I mean, did he really think he could pull from up there like a male Rapunzel?