people who seemed to be going nowhere fast. She was wearing open-toed Jimmy Choo sandals, so the last thing she wanted was to have her feet trampled on like bunches of grapes at harvest time.
It started to rain and Gypsy swore loudly. She didn’t know why because it wasn’t as if the British summer did anything besides rain. But each time the heavens opened she acted surprised as if bad weather was a new phenomenon in the country.
It began to get heavier and Gypsy ran for cover under the doorway of some newly refurbished apartments. She’d been too busy trying to sneak out without being caught to even think of bringing an umbrella. Now she had a choice of whether to get soaked or spend the rest of the short time she had stuck beneath the building.
Gypsy sighed, and as she did so she thought she heard someone cough. She looked down the deserted street, her eyes darting across the square. Even though she couldn’t see anyone, she got the distinct impression she was being watched.
Although it was early summer it was already dark from the stormy sky and she decided to brave the rain rather than stand there. Pulling up her silk jacket she began to walk down the alleyway, quickly turning around to make sure no one was following her. Halfway down she looked back again. Her heart pounded as she suddenly caught a glimpse of someone lurking in the shadows.
Automatically she went into her bag to phone Frankie. Then stopped. What was she doing? She couldn’t possibly phone Frankie or any of his men like she normally would’ve done. Usually if she needed anything, Frankie was the first person she’d call. He was always coming to her rescue if she needed him to. Whether because she’d bought too many clothes in the shops and had loads of bags to get home, or she was caught in a downpour coming back from the beauty salon, or like now, when she felt afraid; Frankie would be there. But for the first time in years Gypsy found herself alone. And she didn’t like the feeling at all.
Gypsy quickened her pace, determined not to give way to the panic which was rising within her. She was being silly, she was sure of it, but her imagination was starting to get the better of her.
She didn’t want to be conscious of her racing heart, her dry mouth and the sick feeling rising in her stomach. She wanted to run but her fear seemed to be slowing her down. She couldn’t think straight but she knew she had to keep walking; keep going towards a place where there’d be people.
It sounded like the footsteps were getting closer, nearer, and any moment she was going to feel a hand grab her by the shoulder. Imagination or not, Gypsy began to run.
She stumbled along the alley, putting her hand against the damp brick wall to hold her balance and stop herself from tottering over in the high shoes. Drips of sweat ran down her back and the sound of Regent Street seemed further away than ever. The tears began to run down her face, misting her eyes and making it harder for her to see ahead as the rain poured down.
She couldn’t hear anything apart from the sound of the steps behind her, loud and exaggerated. Gypsy saw the end of the alleyway and to the left of it was a stone flight of stairs. If she could get to them she’d be safe. She started to pick up her pace which was a mistake; her ankle bent to the side and she began to topple over. Reaching out in front of her to try to stop herself from falling, Gypsy’s hand touched a stack of disused crates. The moment she touched them they clattered to the floor, blocking her way. As she scrambled over them she felt a pull on her leg and instinctively let out a scream before realising her tights were snagged on the crates. Not caring if she tore them or not Gypsy pulled her leg away and braved a glance around.
There was someone there. She was certain of it. She thought she saw the figure in the shadows not moving but watching. She let out another scream as she began to run, running for all her might to the stone stairs, desperate to get away from whatever lurked in the darkness.
With one big effort, Gypsy reached the stairs, breathing hard from fear and from exertion. At the top of them she saw a throng of people and knowing she was safe now, she looked back.
The alleyway was empty apart from the fallen crates. Had she just been silly? Had it been just the sound of the rain and the darkness of the stormy sky playing tricks with her, bringing back distant memories? She’d been so sure there’d been someone there; someone who was ready to hurt her.
She looked down at her torn tights and saw her leg was bleeding slightly. She hadn’t even noticed anything cutting into her, though it was beginning to sting now.
She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked a mess. Half-heartedly she brushed herself down as the rain continued to soak into her clothes, drenching her expensive bleached blonde hair. Letting out a loud sigh she made her way up the rest of the stairs wishing she could tell Frankie about the fright she’d had, but wishing more that she was back home curled up in front of the television watching poker.
She walked towards Park Crescent, limping slightly from the cut on her leg and the shoes which were beautiful but certainly impractical. She looked at the address and realised she was standing outside the right place.
It had a large black imposing front door and white coliseum pillars either side, with a small gold plaque on the wall, simply saying, Clinic. Taking a deep breath, Gypsy pressed the buzzer and waited to be let in.
Frankie Taylor stood naked apart from a pair of paper pants and a white towelling hair turban. He had his arms stretched out and his legs spread wide as the Chinese woman spray-tanned him in his private tanning room at the top of his house in Berkeley Square.
‘Well?’
‘Well I saw her. I followed her all the way there, it was like a scene from Starsky and Hutch, thought me bleeding heart was going to jump out of me frigging chest. I’m telling you Frank, my ticker ain’t what …’
Frankie put his hand up in the air as he turned around to get his back sprayed. He interrupted his sister, annoyed and certainly not in the mood for her to recount any tales of her ill health. ‘Turn it in Lorn, bleeding hell. Just cut to the frigging chase and tell me what you saw,’ he said forcefully.
Lorna looked at her brother, feigning sympathy on her round face as he stepped out of the spray booth wrapping his dressing gown around himself.
‘It was just like you feared, Frankie. It was like all yer nightmares had come at once.’
Frankie banged his hand on the handmade walnut dresser, giving the Chinese lady who was packing away her things a fright. He wanted straight facts, not an Elizabethan tragedy played out in front of him.
‘Fuck me Lorna, are you trying to torture me? What did you see?’
‘Well I hate to be the one to tell you, Frank. You know me, I always want to see a man happy with his wife, but yer old girl’s playing away. I saw her with me own eyes. Up close and bleeding personal with some fella. Any closer, and the friction between them would’ve started a bleedin’ fire. They were that entwined anyone passing would’ve thought they were a pair of conjoined twins.’
Lorna paused, before adding slyly, ‘And he was younger than you. Much younger.’
Frankie had heard enough. It was as if his heart was being twisted and shredded into tiny pieces. He felt his chest tightening and a pain so sharp behind his eyes he had to clench his fist from stopping himself from crying out. His mouth had gone dry and he reached over for his glass of whiskey, but his hand was shaking so much he didn’t know if he could hold it.
‘And where was this?’
‘Up near Park
