he could think how to respond she added, ‘Well, that’s OK, we think so too, sometimes. The problem is that they aren’t written according to the standard musical scale.’
Brera interrupted. ‘It’s complicated, that’s all.’ Then she added, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon get the hang of us.’
Steven was struggling to keep up. He said, ‘So you both want me to manage you?’ They nodded.
He felt as though he was missing out on something crucial, was bemused, but threw caution to the wind and said, ‘Then I’d be delighted to.’
He held out his hand to Brera. Brera hesitated for a moment before taking it. She had the strong yellow nails of a long-time guitar plucker. After pressing his fingers for a second she let go and picked up the plate of croissants. ‘Take one. They’re nearly cold.’
Sam laughed. ‘They are cold.’
Steven was secretly irritated that this courteous gesture on Brera’s part had deprived him of the opportunity of shaking Sam’s hand again. Sam didn’t seem to care though. She was sipping her coffee and looking over at Brera as though they were sharing some kind of private joke. He hoped emphatically that he wasn’t it.
Sylvia had been asked by both Sam and Brera to attend the breakfast meeting. She had agreed to go. ‘After all,’ they’d said, ‘whatever the outcome, it’s bound to affect you.’
She had agreed to go but had never had any real intention of attending, although this didn’t dissuade her from standing outside the kitchen and listening to the on-going conversation inside. Occasionally she was forced to scamper back to her room to stifle her coughing, which was dry, hacking, and came in short bursts every few minutes.
She had watched Steven get out of his car and walk towards their block of flats from her window, and had disliked him, on principle, instantaneously. What she overheard from outside the kitchen didn’t improve this opinion.
She was glad that she had kept out of the way. She was sure that her presence at the breakfast table would have spoilt the success of any joint venture.
Why should I care anyway? she thought furiously. I have my own bloody life.
She sat down on her bed and stared blankly at the carpet. She felt constricted. Things kept changing. Things always changed.
A sparrow flew in and landed on her shoulder. The pigeons cooed.
‘How long have you been waiting?’
The policeman glanced at his watch. ‘Five minutes.’
Ruby found him moderately attractive, for a policeman. He was tall but thin and had a deep dimple in either cheek and in his chin.
‘I’ve come about the bail,’ he said, stepping out of the doorway so she could get to her door.
‘Why?’ she said. ‘What did I do?’
He smiled at this. While he smiled, it dawned on her. ‘For him? You must be joking. He expects me to pay his bail?’
‘He told me that you were the closest he had to a relative.’
Ruby’s startled expression made him laugh out loud.
‘You’re just a sadist,’ she said, ‘in a bloody police uniform.’
‘In case you wondered, I got your address from your manager. He said this was a company flat.’
Ruby felt around in the pocket of her jacket for her keys. ‘I’m not paying his bail. I don’t even know him.’
‘That’s up to you. He’s got no money of his own.’
She put her key into the lock. ‘I never even met him before today.’
‘You must’ve made a good impression.’
‘How much is it, anyway?’
‘Two hundred.’
She pushed the door open. ‘He can sing for it. You can tell him that.’
‘I will.’
‘Is that all?’
He nodded.
‘Thanks, then.’
She stepped inside, then turned. ‘Where is he exactly?’
‘The local nick.’ He began to grin. ‘You’re going to pay it, aren’t you?’
‘Even I,’ she said firmly, ‘am not quite that stupid,’ and closed the door behind her.
Two hundred, she thought, climbing the stairs. He’s crazy.
She’d almost reached the top when she heard the doorbell chime inside her flat. She swore, turned round, and walked back down again to answer it. Outside, instead of the policeman, whom she’d half-expected, was her friend Pablo. Everyone preferred to call him Toro. She didn’t know why. He was holding two bottles of cheap lemon vodka. Ruby took a bottle from him and inspected the label. ‘What’s wrong with Martini or a crate of lager?’
Toro smiled, his cheeks bunched up and the pressure of them squeezed his eyes into almonds. ‘I saw you at Hackney,’ he said, ‘on television.’
‘Yeah?’ She turned and started to walk upstairs again. ‘Where? In Ladbrokes? How did I look?’
He slammed the front door and followed her. ‘Completely beautiful.’
‘Thanks.’
Once inside, Ruby took off her jacket and slung it over the back of the sofa, then flung herself into an armchair and scraped her heels across the floor to pull off her shoes. She wriggled her stockinged toes and said, ‘Maybe I should grow my toenails and paint them, then I could wear sandals and my feet wouldn’t sweat as much.’
Toro looked slightly disgusted. ‘Why was the shop closed this morning?’
She didn’t answer immediately, so he searched for the volume percentage of alcohol on the label of one of the bottles he was holding.
Ruby’s flat was comfortable but shoddy. It consisted of a small sitting-room and adjoining kitchen, with an old Baby Belling, a sink and a fridge, a tiny bathroom and a small box-shaped bedroom. The walls were painted a uniform creamy yellow which gave the place a distinctly institutional feel. The furniture was old but solid. Ruby had few homely or ornamental possessions, but a lot of clothes and records. The records lined one wall of the sitting-room and items of clothing, clumps of accessories and numerous pairs of boots and shoes had been tossed about with general disregard. The room was dusty.
Toro unscrewed the top of a vodka bottle and asked for some glasses. Ruby picked up a couple of dirty mugs and went to the sink to
