is amazed. ‘As in Simon Cowell?’
‘Nein!’ Christa snorts as if this is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. ‘Nein, silly, his brother, Nicholas. He is not nearly as rich. He only has one yacht while Simon has, I think, six or seven.’
‘Well, that will be fantastic.’
‘Ja, for sure. You should come!’
‘Oh I don’t think so.’
‘Ja! It would be so much fun. There are always many famous people dropping in. Last year Paris Hilton was there and Bruce Willis. Paris was so sweet with Roger and Bruce is lovely. He told me to call him if Rudi and I ever split up.’
‘Really?’ says Rachel, wishing that Sue was there.
‘Well, you know. Have a think about it. Talk to Dave,’ she adds.
‘Steve,’ corrects Rachel.
‘Yes, him too. Roger!’
Christa strides off to rescue her bilious-looking son from the roundabout, which Lily and Alfie have been spinning a little too fast.
‘Mum! Look at me!’
Rachel looks over to see Will at the top of the climbing frame.
‘Well done, Will. Clever boy.’
She catches sight of Verity talking with intensity to another mother. She lifts her hand to wave, but Verity looks away, pretending not to see her. Rachel sighs as her phone beeps with a text. It’s Steve: ‘Dn’t b md bt gt 2 wrk l8 agn. Lkng 4wrd 2 w/e. Love u, sx’
Rachel punches a reply ‘OK. Going fr drnks wth Em 2mrrw.Pls cn u b on time, r’
Steve answers: ‘Wll do my bst. C u l8tr. x’
Rachel throws her phone into her bag and calls to the children. ‘Right who wants pizza? Mummy’s treat!’
Richard Bennett is feeling smug as he strides into the entrance hall of the Battersea riverside apartments. The lobby is tastefully decorated with modern-looking canvasses and the discreet lighting gives a warm glow that says ‘you really want to live here’. Richard breathes in the aroma of a new and untouched world, a million miles away from the piss and vomit stench of his East Dulwich flat’s corridor.
‘Mr Bennett?’
He turns smiling, ready with effortless charm. He is delighted by the form and features of the person before him. She holds out a perfectly manicured, soft hand.
‘Sophie Chancellor. Delighted to meet you. I think you’ll like what I’m about to show you,’ she adds with mild innuendo.
‘The pleasure will be all mine,’ Richard replies, knowing that this sounds corny, but also knowing that he is talking to a casual acquaintance. He has nothing to lose.
‘Please follow me.’
He follows her into the lift, enjoying a shameless view of Sophie’s perfectly sculpted behind, enveloped as it is in an hourglass-tight, knee-length skirt. As they travel to the ninth floor, Richard observes the curve of her neck and notices her checking him with a coy, sexy smile. They emerge from the lift and she leads him to the end of a corridor, then takes a sharp right, stopping at door number 915.
‘Here we are. Home,’ she says with a smile as she turns the key.
Richard pushes the door and is impressed. Every corner of the flat screams ‘I’m modern, I’m hip. You want me.’ From the granite breakfast bar and six-ring stove to the Bose stereo which blinks into life at the flick of a switch, it is everything Richard has longed for. All the endless research trips, the hours spent doing time at the British Library and the years writing, getting rejected, rewriting and then getting accepted as a proper writer, have been worth it. Richard turns towards the French windows that flank one side of the apartment and is breathless at the view. London in all its mish-mashed glory stretches before him looking wonderful. Richard turns to Sophie who is watching him carefully, allowing him to take in his surroundings.
Good at her job and probably a good shag too, he thinks.
‘You like?’ she asks in a teasing voice.
‘I do, but aren’t you forgetting something?’ he says.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You haven’t shown me the bedroom.’
Sophie smiles and it’s the smile of someone who loves her job, who is control of her life and who knows how to play a man. She unbuttons her blouse, slips off her skirt and stands before him looking gorgeous in black lacy underwear and as Richard correctly suspects, stockings and suspenders. Even Richard is speechless, not quite believing how his day and his life are turning out. Sophie walks down the corridor glancing backwards and beckoning to him. Richard grins and shakes his head before following her to the bedroom.
The Pickled Pig represents the waning soul of twenty-first-century public houses the country over. It once served this corner of southeast London as a cinema until the big cinema companies invented places called multiplexes and it went out of business. It then became a pub and got swallowed up by one of the big pub companies. This caused the locals to moan until they realised that the beer was actually a lot cheaper than before.
Emma is the first to arrive and selects a pint of local beer before finding a booth, far away enough from the bar to be quiet, but close enough to the action to get a good view of the locals, many of whom have been here since opening time. She studies the black and white photographs on the wall depicting old Penge and a man named Angry Tony who made his living selling potatoes and bizarrely, coffins. The evening is grey and wet and she sees Rachel push her way through the swing doors and shake off her umbrella.
‘Man, it’s chucking it down,’ she declares as she locates Emma. ‘Right, what are we drinking?’
‘Hello, Rachel. Nice to see you too. It’s called Stinky Pete and it’s quite good. Try it.’
Rachel takes a gulp and licks her lips,
‘Hmm, not bad. Want another?’
‘No, I’m fine for now thanks.’
Rachel returns minutes later with her drink and a packet of dry roasted peanuts.
‘Kids all tucked up?’
‘Yeah, but Steve still isn’t home, so –’
‘You left Will in charge?’
Rachel snorts. ‘Don’t be daft, Lily’s much more responsible! No, Tom is babysitting until Steve gets home.’
‘Tom?’
‘Our next-door neighbour.’
‘Oh, the dishy one.’
Rachel is surprised that she and her sister obviously have similar taste. ‘D’you think?’
‘Oh yeah, bit pudgy, but very cute.
