I expected him to live somewhere different. Notting Hill or Chelsea, I thought, trying to remember the details of his property holdings from the Form E. But he instructed the taxi to go east.
‘Spitalfields?’ I said, when he had given the driver our two destinations.
‘Surprised?’
‘I had you down as a West London man.’
‘I suspect that’s not a compliment,’ he said, glancing out of the window.
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘When I bought it, before my marriage, before the Gassler Partnership, I was working on Finsbury Square at Deutsche Bank, so it was handy. Donna never really liked it. She made us move as soon as she could persuade me. But I kept hold of it and moved back in when we separated. If you’re going to live in London, you might as well live in London. For me, that’s what this city is all about. You can feel the Dickensian grit, the ghosts of Jack the Ripper and Fagin. The bright lights of the City, the gas lights of the back streets. It’s the ultimate melting pot – everyone has lived here – the Huguenots, the Jews, Bangladeshis … You can buy the best bagels, the best curry, in London.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like an estate agent.’
‘I just love it. I don’t want to leave.’
‘Leave?’
‘Splitting the assets … Sorry, I forgot we weren’t supposed to talk about the case.’
As we slipped into Clerkenwell, I tried to imagine Donna living around here. Of course, I knew what she looked like – a Google search after my first meeting with Martin had thrown up a few images. Donna at the Serpentine party, at a photographic exhibition: long dark-blonde hair, wide cat-like eyes, a crisp defiance around the mouth. She did not look like an artist, she looked like a Chelsea wife, she looked as if she did not belong in Spitalfields. But Martin didn’t either.
‘You like living near Jack the Ripper’s stomping ground?’ I said, trying to lighten the tone.
‘Now you’re making me feel weird.’
‘Well, you said it.’
‘I meant the atmosphere, the Hawksmoor churches, the history.’
‘You old romantic,’ I teased.
We looked at each other and it was as if we could not tear our gaze away from one another. I felt our fingertips touch on the soft upholstery of the back seat, and the sweet shock of his touch made me stop breathing for a moment. I didn’t pull away and Martin leant forward towards the driver, as if he had read my mind.
‘Spitalfields first. Is that all right?’
He looked at me for approval but I didn’t need to say anything. He took my hand and it seemed the most natural thing in the world, the thing I had wanted, I realized, since that first meeting at Burgess Court. We turned away from each other, our eyes trailing out of opposite windows. The taxi seemed to speed up and the shimmer of danger was palpable.
Spitalfields was London in microcosm, a strange organic meld of the ancient and the space age, jagged silver-and-glass rocket ships pointing to the heavens, next to crumbled, soot-stained tenements, unchanged since the Ripper stalked through the fog. But the grasping crawl of gentrification was everywhere you looked: old wholesalers turned into hip Mexican cafés, neon cacti hammered into their two-hundred-year-old facades, an artisan weavers’ loft turned rabbit-hutch studios for jewellers, DJs and web gurus. Even on a cold night, young clubbers were roaming the streets, looking for craft beer and the elusive scene.
Not everywhere was touched by progress, however. Martin’s building was located just behind Hawksmoor’s glowing white slab of Christ Church, a stone’s throw from the iron marquee of Spitalfields Market. Somehow this pocket of old London had survived the Luftwaffe and the developers, a time capsule of narrow cobbled streets lined with black railings and glowing faux-gas lamps. Sandwiched between thin Georgian terraces with walk-up steps and brass knockers, it was an old warehouse conversion that still bore the name of its former occupants – W.H. Miller and Co carved in a sandstone pelmet around the roof. It looked new yet old, like a Dickensian film set; I half-expected Patrick Stewart dressed as Scrooge to come out, or a horde of urchins to appear behind the gaslight singing ‘Who Will Buy?’
The taxi stopped and Martin paid the driver. There was no discussion about whether it would continue its journey to Islington. I simply got out of the car.
The street was deserted, but even so, I looked around to make sure no one could see me. Not on this street, with the dim yellow light and the tall windows covered with shutters. No one here but ghosts.
Martin took my wet tote and pushed a key into the door. The cavernous atrium was dark with the same manicured, industrial feel – exposed brickwork and steel beams – as the exterior of the building.
‘Top floor,’ he said as he led me towards an old-fashioned lift built for cargo. The noise of my heels, clicking across the concrete floors, echoed around the building. The iron grille clanked shut and the lift stuttered into motion. The light was low in the lift. In a film this would be the part where we would start kissing, fucking. He would press me against the cold steel walls, hold my arms above my head and lift up my skirt. Instead we stood there in restrained silence until the lift stopped six storeys up.
‘This way,’ he said, but there was only one door for the whole top floor.
He let me enter the apartment first, then closed the door behind him. It was dark inside but light seeped in through a bank of arched floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the City. The hall, empty except for an expensive looking racing bike, led to a cavernous and sparse space, like a New York loft, with big sofas and a dining table that seated at least twelve. The pale walls were lined with art but I could see little in the way of personal knick-knacks – no photographs or other clues about who he was or what he liked. It reminded me of a very expensive hotel suite – an idea I found seductive.
‘Look at that,’ I whispered, dazzled by the torpedo-shaped tip of the Gherkin.
I turned round and watched Martin take off his coat. We stood there motionless for a few moments, our eyes not leaving each other’s, and then he moved towards me. My heart was racing. If I was briefly nervous that someone could see us through those big, big windows, then that fleeting unease was forgotten when he was so close I could hear the sound of his breath.
‘You’re wet.’
‘I know,’ I whispered.
He took my face between his hands and stroked my damp cheek with his thumb.
His fingers trailed down towards my neck, my shoulders until he gently held the tops of my arms.
‘You should take this off.’
He turned me round, slowly, carefully, as if it was happening in slow motion, and helped me take off my coat.
I closed my eyes and shut out the view. He was standing behind me now. I could feel the starchiness of his shirt against the thin silk of my blouse. He pushed my hair over my left shoulder and I could feel his warm breath, then his lips on the soft skin at the back of my neck. I tilted my head to one side and inhaled through my nose so that I made a soft shudder
