Chapter 3
3
That summer was one I’ll never forget.
Walking back towards Soho, the streets, despite the late hour, still alive with Friday night revellers enjoying the warm evening after what had been a fairly miserable spring, Bess and Claude advised me to play it cool with Carrington.
‘Play it cool?’ I scoffed. ‘I’m not in the sixth form, playing hard to get with the school’s star football jock, for heaven’s sake. I’m pushing thirty. I really can’t be doing with playing games at my age.’
‘I bet ’e was,’ Claude replied dreamily, sidestepping a couple on the pavement.
‘Was what?’ Bess and I both turned to Claude.
‘You know, captain of le rugby quinze and le football team.’
‘Can you play both ?’ I frowned. ‘ We had to make a choice between hockey and netball when I was at school. We weren’t allowed to play both at Beddingfield Comp.’
‘Well, tennis squad, then,’ Claude replied. ‘ Mon Dieu , I can see ’im in leetle white shorts on the centre court.’
‘He’s a barrister ,’ Bess jeered. ‘In the criminal court. If he plays anything, it’ll be golf. You know, like they all do once they’re in the city and clawing their way to the top. They all end up joining Daddy’s golf club and turning into their fathers.’
‘Stop it.’ I laughed. ‘I’m rapidly going off him.’
‘Oh, you did fancy him, then?’ Bess glanced at me sideways as we came to Lisle Street just off Leicester Square. She stopped. ‘Did you know him? Had you met him before?’
‘Of course, she fancy him,’ Claude put in, before I could reply. ‘Who wouldn’t? Right, we ’ere now, Robyn. Do not phone ’im ’til at least tomorrow. ’Ang on until Sunday if eet at all possible. I am un ’omme and I know these things.’ Claude kissed me on both cheeks before disappearing up the steps and through the entrance of Ku, his attention now on other pleasures.
‘You OK the rest of the way by yourself?’ Bess asked, turning to follow Claude. ‘You don’t need to get an Uber now that the Soho Slasher has apparently been caught?’
‘Of course,’ I replied.
And I was.
I left it until Saturday evening before ringing Carrington. This wasn’t a conscious attempt at ‘playing hard to get’, which, now I was twenty-eight I was more than ready to denounce as juvenile and overrated – as well as full of nuance and subtlety, which, without practice, is not always easy to pull off. Not only was I utterly beyond playing such games at my age, I was genuinely busy the next day. As I went about my Saturday tasks of launderette, food shopping and going over some lines for a forthcoming voice-over job (a tin of famous baked beans being hoovered up in a kitchen up north), I knew that, in reality, Fabian Carrington in the flesh wouldn’t be able to live up to the fantasy I was enjoying of the man. I didn’t want my bubble to burst in a soggy mess of disappointment.
It didn’t.
I’d actually managed to persuade myself that no one could be so attractive as the man I’d been fantasising about for three weeks. That, in reality, he would be boring, right wing, lack a sense of humour, be disparaging about the acting profession: the list of his demeanours was endless. At 9p.m. on the Saturday, with a glass of wine on the tiny kitchen table in front of me, I finally made myself sit down with my phone and rang the number. I assumed he’d be out wining and dining, entertaining any number of women to whom he’d passed his phone number, and I’d just be able to leave a message.
‘Hello?’ He answered on the second ring and, expecting voicemail, I felt the power of speech desert me.
‘Hello?’ he repeated. ‘Fabian Carrington.’
‘Hello, Fabian. This is Robyn.’
‘Robyn?’ I heard puzzlement in his voice.
‘Robyn, the waitress at Graphite? Last night?’ Oh, hell, he’d no idea who I was.
‘Ah, Robyn. I’m so sorry, I didn’t actually know your name. How lovely that you’ve rung.’
‘And did you want me to ring you so you could work out where you think you’ve seen me before?’
He laughed. ‘No, not at all – although that would be good. I was hoping you’d come out for lunch with me.’ His voice was teasing.
‘Lunch?’ I didn’t really do lunch. A coffee and slice of toast with Marmite and peanut butter late morning usually took me, via a packet of digestives and an apple, through to whatever was left in the shared kitchen fridge in the evening. I was a whizz with a pot of cottage cheese and a bag of rocket leaves.
‘You know, that meal one sometimes manages to fit in between breakfast and dinner?’ His voice, educated, warm, held humour.
‘Right, OK, lovely, thank you. That would be very pleasant.’ For heaven’s sake, woman, I chided my stuttering self, my Yorkshire accent sounding conspicuously broad in comparison to his southern articulation.
‘Are you free tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘The day after this one, I believe, is the definition.’ He said the words without an ounce of pomposity and I found myself smiling at his rhetoric.
I had promised myself a day at the studio, really getting to grips with the routine I was working on in readiness for a possible audition the following week. ‘What time were you thinking?’
‘Lunchtime?’ He laughed again and I just loved the sound of his amused response.
‘OK, thank you. I’d like that.’
‘I can pick you up. Where are you?’
‘Soho.’
‘No, I mean where do you actually live ?’
‘Soho.’ Top London barristers obviously didn’t realise people actually lived in the area.
‘Really? I thought Soho was just home to Chinatown, rather sleazy bars and, you know…?’
‘The sex industry?’ Heavens, I hope he didn’t think I was a sex worker and that by taking me out for lunch, he’d end up with a freebie. ‘I can see I’m going to have to educate you,’ I replied, somewhat huffily. Oh, hell, now that sounded as though I were going to educate him with a whip, standing over him in a mask, basque and high heels. ‘This whole area,’ I said quickly, now sounding as if I were narrating a BBC documentary on the area, ‘is the centre of the UK’s film production and post-production industries, so many locals are top professionals working in the film industry.’
‘Right. Sorry. I was actually going to say the hunting ground of the man they’ve dubbed the Soho Slasher. You can’t be too careful there at the moment…’ He paused. ‘Ah, so you’re an actress…?’
‘ Actor , please.’
‘An actor when you’re not waiting on tables?’
‘Trying to be.’ I nodded into the phone and then, remembering he couldn’t actually see me, added, ‘Covid has a lot to answer for.’
‘So, would that be where I’ve seen you before, then? On TV?’
Doubtful, seeing as I’d only ever managed the tiniest of one-line speaking parts in a couple of TV soaps and dramas. ‘Possibly,’ I said. ‘Although musical theatre is my first love and where I really want to be—’ I broke off as I realised he was talking to someone who’d obviously just come into the room. Oh, God, don’t say he was married.
‘I’m sorry, Robyn, something’s just cropped up. Text me your address and I’ll pick you up at one. That OK with you?’
‘Lovely,’ I said faintly, realising he’d already rung off.
I spent Sunday morning at the studio, putting myself through a gruelling routine over and over again, encouraged by Xander, the owner and ex-boyfriend who allowed me free use of the space in return for teaching Zumba classes.
‘Not bad.’ He applauded. ‘Not quite Jennifer Beals yet, but…’
‘Who?’ I panted, sweat dripping as I downed a full bottle of water.
Xander tutted. ‘She who executed one of the greatest dance routines ever? Flashdance ?’
‘Bit before my time.’ I wiped my face. ‘You OK with me tarting myself up here? The shower at my place is prone to a sulk at the best of times and any hot water there will have been used up by Tanya and Jacques by the time I get home.’
‘As long as you’ll come out with me afterwards. We could do lunch?’ Xander looked hopeful.
‘Sorry, already spoken for.’
‘Oh?’
‘Just a friend. Probably a pie and a pint somewhere.’ I smiled, trying to let Xander down gently. I didn’t want to fall out with him – I needed the studio space at my disposal.
I went through the usual shampooing, conditioning, leg-shaving routine that was always a prequel to a first date and wondered, idly, if men put themselves through the same regime. I bet they didn’t. I bet it was a quick shower, an equally quick glance at the previous day’s boxers to see if they’d pass muster for another outing, a clean shirt and that was it.
I walked back to the flat, where Tanya was eating rice pudding straight from the tin while perusing the latest edition of Spotlight .
‘You off out?’ She deigned to look up in my direction.
‘Got a lunch date,’ I said, making for my room.
‘Lunch? Get you.’ She held up the tin of Ambrosia. ‘What’s wrong with a snack in a tin?’ I didn’t find Tanya the easiest of flatmates, especially as she appeared to be constantly in work and didn’t mind letting me know of her success. ‘Anyone I know? What’s he in?’
‘The Old Bailey.’ I grinned.
‘Oh,’ she said, sucking on her spoon thoughtfully. ‘Daniel—’ her agent ‘—wanted me to go for a part in that, but I said, “no way”.’
With twenty minutes to spare, I now had the momentous decision which of my few clothes were going to be suitable for a date with Fabian Mansfield Carrington. There wasn’t a huge choice: being permanently broke meant my wardrobe consisted mainly of charity-shop finds. But Jayden had had a recent financially worthwhile tour of Sweden, Norway and Denmark and had rolled up a month ago with his usual wad of tenners and with the strict instruction to buy myself something lovely. ‘Never mind the council tax,’ he’d dictated, ‘you need to look good when you go for auditions. Every time I see you, you’re in the same leggings or sweatpants.’
So I’d gone along to Beyond Retro on Great Marlborough Street and there, amongst the fabulous vintage forties and fifties frocks, was an utterly beautiful pink, pure cotton, 1960s Ossie Clark sundress.
I reached for it now, pulling it off the clothes rail, and fell in love with the beautiful dress all over again. Hell, shoes? Oh, sod it, everyone wore trainers now in London wherever they were going and, luckily, the spotless white trainers Miss Muffler insisted we wear at Graphite were at my disposal.
Lipstick, blusher and a hand through my – always unruly – mass of black curls and I was off. With five minutes to spare, I made my way down the downright dangerous threadbare-carpeted stairs, stepping over the holes but unable to avoid the nausea-inducing stink from the meats on the vertical rotisserie, and out through the flat’s entrance adjacent to the Turkish kebab joint below. Hasad, who owned the place and was our landlord, whistled. ‘Hey, Robyn, you looking good,’ he called. ‘That doesn’t let you off paying the rent you owe me,’ he added, grinning.
‘Next week, I promise,’ I soothed. ‘I always pay up, you know that.’
‘You come out with me instead. I show you good time.’ He leered wolfishly as I sat down on the pavement, unsure from which direction Fabian would be coming. I closed my eyes against the cloudless cerulean sky, breathing in the warm Sunday lunchtime air. In doing so I also blotted out the throng of humanity, the garishly coloured street signs advertising every sybaritic enticement known to man as well as the piled-up rubbish and abandoned food waste. Nervous that Fabian wouldn’t be able to find me, but just as terrified that he would, I glanced longingly at my front door. I needed a pee. How much easier on my whole nervous system to go back upstairs to the flat, take off my posh frock and make-up and lie on my bed, going over the words for the baked-bean ad.
‘He-e-ey-y,’ Hasad called from his vantage point at the kebab counter, ‘nice car.’
A silver Porsche was making its way at a snail’s pace down the street towards us, its driver obviously uncertain of his bearings, and I jumped up from the pavement as Hasad whistled once more. ‘ Tanrinin anessi – that is some car, Robyn – you take care… E?lence … Enjoy!’
I peered in through the car window as it cruised past me, feeling for all the world as if I were on the set of Pretty Woman , one of my all-time favourite films. Similar gorgeous car, similar gorgeous man. I just prayed he didn’t think I was a similar sort of hooker. I pulled frantically at the hem of my short dress that had ridden up as I sat on the pavement waiting.
The silver car came to a standstill and the offside window slid slowly down.
‘Robyn?’ The door unlocked with a click. ‘Do get in.’
Once seated, I turned towards the man, knowing my face was flushed with the warmth of the afternoon, the exertion of lowering myself into the black leather interior as well as nervous tension. He was wearing an expensive-looking dark blue short-sleeved shirt, jeans and trainers, his olive-skinned face bearing a subtle but very becoming stubble.
‘You OK? Really lovely to see you again.’ He grinned across at me, taking in every bit of me, from my pink dress, equally pink face and obviously nervous disposition. This wasn’t the confident, sassy waitress who’d made constant eye contact with him just two days earlier.
‘OK,’ I breathed.
‘Are you up for a drive?’
‘Well, we’re in a car, so I guess that’s the best way forward,’ I said, wanting to immediately take back and swallow the banal words. Oh, for slick, easy conversation to slip effortlessly from my lips. ‘Where are we heading?’
The car shot forward and a group of Japanese tourists, following their guide with a fluorescent flag held aloft, scrambled for safety. ‘Marlow.’ He smiled.
‘Wasn’t he a poet?’
Fabian laughed. ‘“Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?”’
I was impressed. Not many men knew lines of poetry, and even fewer had ever quoted them at me.
‘I’m actually at my parents’ house for the weekend – they’re away and I’m dog-sitting their new puppy. I’m sorry to drag you all the way over there, but my sister, who was supposed to be doing a shift with the dog, has had to fly off to a meeting in Copenhagen.’
‘Oh?’
He didn’t expand further, but simply raised an eyebrow in my direction as if sisters flying off to Copenhagen for meetings at the drop of a hat on a Sunday morning was the norm. I thought about my own sister, who would be taking my ten-year-old niece, Lola, round to Mum’s place in order that she could fly off to Hudson House, the care home on the outskirts of Beddingfield where Jess put in long and gruelling shifts to pay the rent now that Dean, Lola’s father, had gone AWOL once more.
‘So, Marlow?’ I asked.
‘I grew up there.’
‘But you don’t live there any more?’
‘No, no, it would take me far too long to commute every day into London.’
‘And it’s no place for young hipsters on their way up?’
He laughed at that. ‘You’re right. Once I’m ready to settle down, I might make my way back there.’ He gave me such an intense look, I was almost on the point of saying: ‘ I do . I’ll settle down with you; have the 2.5 kids, the dog, the pony and the orangery off the kitchen.’ ‘Today, it won’t take an hour.’ He was speaking again but, submerged as I was in a lovely dream of hosting fabulous suppers for his barrister colleagues in our beautiful five-bedroomed (all en suite) house in Bucks, I didn’t quite catch all he was saying. All a bit daft anyway, as I can’t cook unless it’s cottage cheese and a bag of the old rocket. Would that suffice for kitchen sups for eight? Jess, a superb cook, keeps telling me that producing a fabulous meal’s not exactly rocket salad, but I would disagree with that sentiment.
‘Sorry, you were saying?’
‘Once we get onto the M40 it’ll be less than an hour’s drive. I thought we could have a picnic on the river?’ He looked a little unsure. ‘Unless you’d rather a restaurant? There’s Heston’s place over at Bray. I did wonder about that…’
‘What? The Fat Duck ?’ I stared at Fabian. Even I, connoisseur of baked beans and cheese on toast, and utterly uninformed about posh restaurants – apart from Graphite – had heard of Heston Blumenthal. ‘It must be booked up years ahead.’
‘Dad’s mate,’ he said, slightly embarrassed. ‘He’d probably fit us in somewhere. Having said that, there’s Boris…’
‘Boris?’ Oh, for heaven’s sake, please don’t say his dad was mates with the ex-prime minister.
‘The dog.’
‘You’ve called a new puppy Boris?’ I stared across at Fabian again.
‘After Boris Becker. My mother spends a lot of her time, when she’s not working, playing tennis. Becker was her idol when she was a teen.’
‘Even though he’s totally fallen from grace? Tax evasion? Prison?’ I wasn’t impressed.
‘Mum was a top London judge at one point. She came out of retirement to help the team defending him at his trial last year.’
‘Right.’
I sat back in my seat as the Porsche hit the fast lane on the M40 and Fabian concentrated on the road ahead. I turned slightly, taking in the dark features of this man who was whisking me off into a world so alien to my own. What the hell was I getting into?