Chapter 3

Who is Andrea Bailey?

 

Chapter 3

 

 

Andrea Bailey rolled over in her empty bed. The silk sheets that covered it made a soft, protesting whisper in the process. She yawned lazily, rubbed her eyes before emerging naked from the king-sized bed and walked to the chair where she had neatly placed her silk bathrobe the night before.

She moved through to the bathroom, turned on both taps, added some bath salts and then picked up the two letters that stuck out of the letterbox on her way to the kitchen where she made herself a cup of Earl Grey tea. She sat herself down and opened the envelopes - both addressed to ‘the occupier’. Andrea, deciding she was not interested in further credit cards or sponsoring a third world child, ripped them up and placed them in the bin. She would have been surprised had any personal mail found its way to this address.

When she had emptied her cup, Andrea returned to the bathroom, turned off the taps and let the bathrobe drop to the floor as she stretched one of her long, pale- chocolate legs into the bath. Satisfied with the temperature, Andrea lowered her body into the foamy liquid and felt the instant bliss as water rose to cover her hard brown breasts.

She picked up the soap (Appassionata by Laura Bugotti) and turned it slowly between her wet palms until the lather was creamy and pungent. Then she stroked it down her arms, across her breasts down, down, to the tips of her crimson-tipped toes. As she worked she conducted her routine inventory. Toe nails: still flawless. No action needed. The skin of her calves: moisturiser. Finger nails: wrong shade for today’s outfit. A duskier, subtler, tint to complement a plum-coloured, raw silk trouser suit; think orchid she murmured to herself, and smiled at her own absurdity. She was a professional, not an airhead.

Although she usually enjoyed lazing in her bath, Andrea was aware that today she had to be on the road early. She quickly washed, stepped out of the bath, and dried herself in an ivory towelling kimono, which she wrapped around herself before padding barefoot back to her bedroom.

She sat in front of the dressing table, and turned this way and that into the mirror as she carefully and surely perfected her daytime make-up. Andrea never compromised.

Once she had finished her make-up, Andrea dressed, grabbed her bag and made her way out of Napier Court. She used the remote to open the door of the BMW and started the engine. Knowing she had lots to do today, Andrea decided her first stop was the flat in Chiswick. For a moment, she even contemplated making a detour to Hackney.

 

 

 

Natasha took a last look in the mirror before closing the door to her bedroom and leaving the flat. She had put on a little make-up and had done her hair. First she had tried pinning it up, as her Indian friend did – one slide, or even a biro, holding up a whole great twist. But Natasha’s hair slipped free of the single mooring, so she had brushed it down and pinned the slide in just to look pretty.

The make up came in a little jade-green case and was a cute set of miniature cream-colour blocks complete with applicators, brush and mirror. It was airport duty-free booty; a ‘gift’ that came when you bought a fair sized bottle of big-brand, full-strength perfume. A holiday souvenir from the chief barmaid at The Old Spotted Mare in Nottingham, where Natasha pulled pints on a Friday night. “Get a bit of lippy on, love,” Yvette had said. “Here’s a starter kit from sunny Florida. You couldn’t call it showy. No one’ll call you a slapper. Its classy stuff, this. Clinique.”

She was pleased that the pair of candy striped trousers and tight tee shirt showed off her figure – not that she expected to be complimented for her body; in fact, she could not recall anyone ever telling her she had a nice body.

Well not exactly true, perhaps the words may have been uttered during the few sexual encounters she had endured. The one ‘steady’ relationship, (which had lasted all of four weeks and ended when Alex had drunkenly told her that the reason he wanted her was for convenient sex, not love) had taught her that words were too often used by some men solely to flatter until they got you between the sheets.

Natasha was more than confident that her slender figure would never attract such comments as “God her bum looks big in that!” In fact she was more than conscious of her unimpressive backside and any means of enhancing that region was welcome.”

She took a deep breath before knocking on Marcus’ door, hoping that he was in.

It seemed like an age before he opened the door dressed in jeans and a slightly creased blue polo shirt.

“Hi. Ready for that drink?” she asked, thankful that he was indeed home.

“Right. I’ll just grab a coat.”

Marcus disappeared inside, turned off the TV and picked up a wine-coloured blouson from behind the door before joining Natasha. They completed the three-minute walk to the Market Tavern in a nervous silence.

“What are you having?” Natasha asked Marcusas a middle-aged barmaid approached.

“A pint of lager please.”

“A pint of lager and a vodka and orange please,” she repeated to the barmaid who was already fetching glasses.

The barmaid served Natasha, politely accepted her twenty-pound note for the drinks, deposited the note in the till then gave her the change.

Although the pub was busy as usual, they managed to find an empty table and sat down.

Natasha started to clear the tabletop. She dumped the empty crisp packet into the ashtray, stacked the two half-empty glasses and blew some spilt ash carefully onto a discarded paper serviette. Finally, she picked up all the clutter calmly, with practised ease, and left them at the end of the bar before threading her way back.

Lust had started to stir in Marcus when Natasha had bent over the table, pursing her lips to blow away the miniature mound of ash, but he wasn’t ready to relax and enjoy it.

I’m turning into a dirty old man. How old is she? How old am I? Marcus thought.

“Feeling a bit better today?” he asked.

“Yes. Sorry about yesterday.”

Marcus tutted, “I thought you weren’t going to keep on apologising.”

“Right.”

“What’s it like at university?”

“Bloody hard work.”

“Is it?”

“Too right. It’s not the coursework; I can cope with that. It’s the fact that I’ve got to work in order to get by.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I work in a restaurant and do some cleaning in a small hotel. Boring really, but it means I can finish my course.”   She paused to take a drink. “What about you? What do you usually do?”

“Me, I used to work in an insurance office.”

“What happened?”

“I was made redundant. The company got taken over and the new firm decided it needed to ‘downsize’.”

Natasha finished her drink and signalled to Marcus. “Drink up.”

Marcus waved his hand, “I’ll get these.”

“No. I told you it was my turn tonight.” She waited for him to finish before taking the glasses.

“I’ll give you a hand.”

Natasha struck a self-assured pose. “Keep the seats. I think I can manage to carry two drinks.”

Marcus watched as she made her way to the bar. What was it about her that had caused him to open up to her? He had grown used to being alone, safe in the solitude of his own company where no one could harm him. Now he was having conversations; expressing feelings he had kept to himself for so long.

He heard her voice before he realised that she had returned.

“Do you mind if I ask you something personal?” Natasha asked nervously as she placed the pint glass in front of Marcus.

“Thanks,” he said accepting the drink, “I won’t know until you ask.”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Go for it.”

Natasha sipped her drink. “How long ago did you split up from your wife?”

“Nearly two years now.”

“What happened to her?”

“She’s living with the bloke.”

“Does she live close by?”

“No. She lives in our old house in Essex.”

Natasha bit pensively on her lips before asking, “Do you still see her?”

“No I don’t,” Marcus answered quickly, with no attempt to disguise the malice in his voice.

“Why did you move to Blackheath? It’s such a long way from Essex. Have you got family around here?”

Marcus was relieved when the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of three well-dressed women wearing expensive designer clothes, who raucously entered the pub and approached the bar. 

The loud pop of the champagne cork caught Marcus and Natasha’s attention.

“Looks like they’re having a good time.”

“The mixed-race one lives in Napier Court.”

Natasha raised her eyebrows, “Alright for some.”

“What do you think she does for a living?”

Natasha shrugged her shoulders, “How should I know?”

“Have a guess,” he urged.

Natasha picked up her glass and traced the rim with her finger as she studied the group. “Something well paid. Advertising or marketing?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, they don’t look like professionals such as lawyers or doctors, but they can afford authentic designer clothes. I used to work Saturdays in a posh boutique and I can tell that what they are wearing doesn’t come cheap. So am I right?”

“I don’t know. It was bugging me.”

“Then why don’t you just ask her?” said Natasha, a little jealous that he obviously found the woman attractive.

“It doesn’t matter. I just wondered that’s all. I thought she might be a model or an actress, someone famous.”

“I suppose she could be. I don’t recognise her though.”

“She doesn’t work regular office hours.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve seen her coming out of her building in the afternoons when I go to sign on.”

Another cork popped as the women opened another bottle of champagne.

Natasha leant forward and said in a low voice, “Perhaps she’s a prostitute, or a drug dealer.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well think about it. Irregular hours, flash clothes and expensive apartment; obvious isn’t it.”

“A bit too stereotypical though isn’t it?”

Natasha took a sip of her drink. “Some of the girls at my college strip or - well, you know. Do it for money. “

 “Why?”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Why do you think? It’s quick money that gets them out of debt.”

“A bit drastic. You’d think that someone clever enough to go to university would be able to manage their finances,” Marcus said unsympathetically.

Natasha leaned forward, forearms on the table, risking pools of spilt drink. Her eyes shone bright with animation; remembering how she used to run. How her heart had pounded as she picked up speed, then settled again as she maintained the acceleration and her body adjusted to the new demands: effort remembered; effort sustained. The athlete was back.

“Yes, but it’s easy to see why. When mum died, I had to work full time for a year and save all my wages to make sure I could get through my first year at Uni. My dad didn’t help me one bit.”

“I watched this talk show on TV about people who did things others didn’t approve of for money. They called them guests, but they had to disguise the faces and put their voices through synthesisers. They had burglars, prostitutes and drug dealers. There was even a murderer, you know a hit man,” said Marcus.

“Sounds like a nice bunch.”

“That’s what I thought at first, but when I heard them explaining why they did what they did, I almost found myself understanding them.”

“What?” exclaimed Natasha in horror, “How could they justify killing someone?”

“I don’t know. The girls at college who strip or whatever, what do you think about them?”

“I don’t know them personally. I’m too busy getting by the legal ways; well apart from taking a bit of cash in hand. I understand the pressure they are under and how it might seem to be an easy way out, but it isn’t is it?”

“No, but you understand and you don’t judge them, that’s what I meant.”

“Yes, but just because you understand doesn’t make it right. I couldn’t do what they do.”  She finished her drink and stood up. “Last one - and I’m buying.”

Marcus held his hands up in resignation. Natasha smiled and left for the bar.

As Natasha reached the counter, one of the three smartly dressed young women, shimmied up to Marcus’ table. She - like her friends - definitely rated as a “Babe”, a girl who would always, always find time and money for leg waxes and hair highlights.

“Do you know where the ladies are?” she asked, without faint pretence.

“Yes, they’re just around the corner in the other bar,” Marcus answered.

“No they’re not – we’re over there,” she said pointing to her two friends who were waving and laughing.

“We’re realladies,” she winked and gestured to the chair beside him. “My name’s Hannah. Is that seat taken?”

“Afraid so,” Marcus said and nodded at Natasha who was returning with the drinks.

Hannah bent over and made sure Marcus got an eyeful of her ample bosoms that were bursting out of the low cut top. “Well if you get bored, you know where we are.” She smiled, touched-fingers suggestively with the tips of her short blonde hair, swivelled back to her friends, smiling at Natasha as she sashayed past her. 

Marcus smiled as he watched her exaggerated strut, buttocks swaying invitingly. Under his breath he spat out, “F*****g s**t!”

Natasha put down the drinks. “I wasn’t interrupting anything was I?” she ribbed.

“No you bloody well weren’t,” Marcus snarled.

Sensing the change in Marcus’ mood, Natasha sat quietly and played with her hair as she waited for him to start a conversation. There was no charge of attraction now in his looks or manner. The three women had spoilt it.

 

Like those vampire sisters in Dracula, Natasha thought, remembering how, aged twelve, she’d read Dracula – the proper novel – sitting demurely, schoolgirl knees together, in a shiny armchair at her local library, almost until closing time. When the dowdy-but-nice lady on the desk came up behind her to announce discreetly that it was ten to seven, she had actually shrieked.

 

Natasha looked apprehensively at him over the rim of her glass and wondered what she had done to upset him. Any further attempts to instigate dialogue were met with muted response by Marcus who for some unknown reason was now clearly brooding.

It was with some relief mixed with trepidation that the evening ended and Marcus walked Natasha to her flat.

“Thanks for the drinks,” Marcus said as he fished into his pockets for his keys.

“We’re even now”.

“I wasn’t keeping tally,” Marcus snapped.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Natasha said defensively.

Marcus detected the hurt in her voice. “I’m sorry. It’s okay. Look feel free to knock again if you want anything.”

“Are you sure?” she asked tentatively.

He nodded.

She smiled, “You might regret saying that.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Thanks. Goodnight then.”

“Bye.”

 

 

Marcus walked across his bed-sit to the fridge, took out a cold can of lager and tugged on the ring pull. He selected a cassette, inserted it into the video. Placing his lager on the bedside table, he lay on the bed and pressed the remote.

He remained riveted to the screen watching the talk show that he had described to Natasha.   Marcus fast-forwarded to a guest who was describing her early life in a run down project in America.   She recounted her story of her introduction to wealthy men, and how she had no qualms about dating married men.

Marcus’ face contorted with hatred when the host asked how she felt about her actions and the guest flicked back her hair, smiled before saying “Sometimes you’ve just got to do what you have to in order to get what you want.”

Fit women, beautiful women; what they did to you with their cheers, their sobs, and their long-festered grievances brewing in those heaving bosoms. They could always justify why they do what they did. Take you for all you had, everything you had given, your own roof from over your head and even your children. That was what they did; just as his mother had, just as Maxine had. Get a life?   More like take a life?

Marcus pressed the rewind button on the remote and played the clip once; then again and again.

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Reviews

[Shellie]

This was alot more forward, moving along smoothly and mixing alot more in. Is Andrea the little girl that had been mocked in the playground I am wondering.