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at Gabriel. ‘Hop on the bed and let’s have a look at you.’
I know we haven’t exchanged – and I know the process might be beset with hassles and stress but sod it, I have a good vibe and a long lunch hour and it’s a beautiful day so I’m going to stroll all the way to the Ruth Aram shop and buy something gorgeous for our new home. A lamp maybe! Perhaps something funky and functional for the kitchen! Or a stunning piece of ceramic just because it’s beautiful!
She phones Saul to see if he wants to join her, perhaps even squeeze in a celebratory sandwich lunch somewhere, but his phone is off and she imagines he is either up against a deadline to extol the new generation Bluetooth for T3 magazine or perhaps out of range in some picture editor’s office.
No! No, he’s not! He’s not doing Bluetooth or pictures because there he is! Just ahead of me! Over there! Saul! Saul! O most auspicious day!
Saul is wending his way down Berwick Street ahead of Thea. The scamp and bustle of the market absorb Thea’s voice so she attempts to pick up her pace and weaves between stallholders and browsers to try and catch up with him. She sees him turning left.
‘Hey! Saul – Mr Mundy!’
He hasn’t heard. And there’s a bloke riding a moped on the pavement sending pedestrians scattering like skittles. Thea skips her way on and off the kerb with the deftness of Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain only it’s not raining, it’s gloriously sunny. She turns the corner just in time to see Saul disappearing into a doorway some yards ahead.
Damn. Quick. Let me try his phone again. Bugger – still off. He must have gone into some meeting. Bluetooth and pictures or what have you.
Momentarily disappointed, Thea decides she’ll stroll along this street anyhow because it won’t be too much of a detour and, although it’s mostly sex shops and dodgy video clubs, there may be some interesting shops further along.
Here. This is where Saul is having his meeting. In here.
Strange.
Doesn’t look like an office.
There’s no front door!
Well, there is, but it’s been propped open. But there’s certainly no sign of a reception area with a cold-water dispenser and the company logo on laser-etched glass. The open doorway reveals just a bare hallway and a staircase, with gloss paint chipped like a tart’s fingernails.
There are two signs taped to the door jamb, each beneath a buzzer.
BLACK BEAUTY 1ST FLOOR
MODELS! top
Thea stands at the threshold and backs away. How odd – because she’s sure this was where Saul went. Positive, in fact. Perhaps it’s all very C. S. Lewis, she thinks to herself – you go in one place and come out quite somewhere else. She checks the buildings to either side. One is a minicab office with a sleepy Ugandan sitting on the doorstep with a clipboard on his knee. The other is a business selling perspex of all colours, thicknesses, shapes and sizes. It’s closed, though. Back 1 Hour the note says. No, this building in between is definitely where Saul went in.
Thea hovers back outside the building. Black Beauty and Top Models. Fleetingly, she imagines Kate Moss and her pals sitting upstairs watching daytime television and the thought is so incongruous she grins. But anyway, it’s ‘MODELS! top’, not ‘top models’, so Thea lets the image go.
All it says is ‘BLACK BEAUTY 1ST FLOOR’ and ‘MODELS! top’. But there must be someone else, another business, in there because Saul’s gone in.
‘Excuse me.’ Thea approaches the Ugandan, relaxed on a rickety chair, tapping a Biro on his clipboard.
‘You want a cab, lady? Where you going?’
‘No, thanks. I’m just. Do you know what else is in that building?’ Thea asks. The man glances and shrugs. ‘Is there a small studio or company that makes gadgets?’ Thea asks. ‘You know, boys’ toys and the like?’ The minicab man chuckles. ‘Is there something to do with publishing in there?’ Thea persists.
‘No. Just the girls,’ the man tells her, ‘just those girls.’
‘Oh,’ says Thea, frowning. How peculiar. She stares at the building. There’s probably a writer’s tiny garret right at the top. Saul’s probably gone to commission some freelancer or other. ‘Is there a tiny office right at the top?’ she asks. The minicab man shrugs and shakes his head. Thea reads this as the man not actually knowing the answer. The perspex shop is still closed. Maybe they have a small storeroom in the next building and Saul needs some perspex.
BLACK BEAUTY.
Wait! Oh my God, Black Beauty!
Thea spins an explanation so plausible and heart-warming that she starts swooning at Saul’s thoughtfulness.
He’s researched it! It’s some book specialist devoted to Anna Sewell’s great tome! He’s buying me a first edition!
Is he?
Is he, Thea?
Is that what he’s buying in there?
She sees that the minicab man is putting his chair inside and shutting up shop, walking off towards the market. The street is quiet. There’s another man, sauntering up the street, jangling a bunch of keys. Perspex for sale. What kind of a trade is that? How much perspex must you sell in a day to make a living? How long has Thea been there? She has no idea. How long has Saul been in there? She just can’t figure it out.
‘Exuse me,’ she approaches the perspex man as he’s unlocking the shop door, ‘what’s next door?’
‘It’s a house of ill repute, my dear,’ he says theatrically, lightly.
‘And what else?’ Thea asks. ‘Are there any writers in there too? Or small quirky businesses? Anything with anything to do with magazine publishing?’
‘No,’ the man says, ‘just the girls. Try a couple of streets along – there’s a few book places and the like around there.’ He enters the shop. Thea remains on the pavement. She’s starting to feel sick and confused. Come on, think. There must be an explanation. Why is Saul in there? What’s he doing? When is he coming out?
BLACK BEAUTY 1ST FLOOR.
MODELS! top
Where is Saul? Where is he? First floor? Or on top?
There’s only so much thinking Thea can do because, after all, there’s only the girls in there. And Saul. In painfully slow motion, Thea’s life is beginning to fragment into splintered images and fractured memories, half-formed theories and hastily rejected signs and clues, all of which wreak havoc with her ability to acknowledge fact.
A door closes. Footsteps are descending the staircase. Thea fears she’s rooted to the spot and yet suddenly she finds herself inside the perspex shop. Her heart pounds in her throat and head at different rates. Some force hauls her stomach against her spine and evaporates all the moisture in her mouth. Her conscience rails; she yells at herself you horrible cow! how dare you cast aspersions at Saul! how dare you think he could do something like that! something like that to you! look! see! it’s not Saul! of course it’s not Saul – it’s a complete stranger! just some sad old fat bloke in his sixties who lives with his mum in Purley and has never had a girlfriend.
No.
It is Saul. It is Saul. It is Saul.
Thea watches Saul saunter past through her fractured perspex veil. Saul, distorted through this prism of shards and sheets and panes and panels in jewel-like colours and degrees of transparency. Everything is twisted, fragmented; like a