It had all the hallmarks of that age, though, like a second rush of hormones raging through her. But without the spots, thank God.
‘I can’t sell your astonishing bedroom skills,’ she said, snuggling closer into him. ‘But you’re welcome to give them away to me for free.’
He laughed then sobered, lying back down and staring at the ceiling.
‘It’s not for free, though, is it? It’s for board and lodging. I’m your gigolo.’
‘Don’t be daft. I’d let you stay here regardless. You know what I think of your art. And – I don’t know why, and I must be mad, but my instincts are usually good – I trust you.’
‘You’re the only fucker that does round here, then,’ he said.
She lay down beside him and kissed his cheek.
‘Perhaps I’m the only fucker round here with good instincts, then,’ she said.
He brightened a little, stroking her face.
‘Makes sense,’ he said. ‘Since you’re the one that got away.’
‘I’ll get you out of here,’ she whispered. ‘I promise.’
He whispered back, ‘Maybe I don’t want to leave. Maybe I want to stay here, with you, in Never Never Land, forever.’
Chapter Five
Two days later, Jenna drove along Camden Road, feeling a kind of prickly sense of oppression she had never before experienced when entering London.
She remembered the very first time, on the train from Nottingham. As fields became streets and they slowed down, she and Deano had been glued to the window. The houses weren’t like Bledburn houses, the roads weren’t like Bledburn roads, the very air that surrounded them didn’t seem like Bledburn air. There was something of glamour even in the terraces and high rises. Any cramped flat might house a famous future DJ or movie star, any one of those people in the street could have been on TV, never mind if it was only in an episode of The Bill.
‘You can do anything here,’ she’d said, but Deano had laughed.
‘If you can afford it.’
That excitement, that hope that she might be able to pull herself and Deano up into the heights, was no longer with her. The streets outside her car window looked dirty and overcrowded, the funky bars and clubs of Camden where she and Deano had spent their best – if poorest – years just buildings. She had never seen the poverty, desperation, crime and drug addiction that was woven so seamlessly into the groovy fabric of London. She had chosen to block it out, but now it seemed to thrust itself in her face. Literally, when a gaunt-looking man, whose age she couldn’t have begun to guess, made an ill-advised attempt to cross the road in front of her, forcing her to slam on the brakes and make the taxi behind her honk in fury.
He didn’t even register her but staggered on across the road, anxious to meet up with some guys outside a fried chicken shop on the corner.
She got back into gear and drove on, but her hands shook and she felt as if all this was a horrible mistake. She should have stayed in Bledburn, in bed, with Jason.
Her eyes flicked to the bag on the passenger seat – a portfolio in a clear plastic sheet. This was a good idea. It was the right thing to do.
Doubts continued to assail her nonetheless, all the way out of Camden, through the city streets and into the expensively hushed environs of Mayfair, where her friend Tabitha kept a gallery.
Tabitha’s assistant, Petra, met her at the plate glass door and showed her inside. Jenna found that she needed showing – it had been some years since she had visited Tabitha’s gallery and it had had one of its periodic makeovers. The blond wood floors and discreet spot lighting she remembered had been replaced by shiny, rubbery jet black tiling and lightbulbs in what looked like inverted saucepans, fitted along long extendable rods from the walls and ceiling. Bright white walls held an array of works both representational and abstract, but all of it very, very good.
Jenna stood taking it in while Petra disappeared to the upstairs office to find Tabitha.
She was heralded by her clear, patrician tones from the back of the gallery, diverting Jenna’s attention from the fascinating portrait made up of red and green dots she had been examining.
‘Jen, darling, I can’t believe it’s you!’
‘How are you? The gallery’s looking stunning.’
‘Thank you.’
Air kissing wafted an expensive scent, more Paris than London, into Jenna’s nostrils.
‘And how are you? Looking very well, I must say. I heard you were taking it easy.’