Fire After Dark (9 page)

I’m going to do it. I’m going to seize the day. I won’t be afraid.

I walk down the metal staircase, my footsteps ringing with more assurance than I actually feel. At the bottom I can see in through the windows but whatever is beyond is dimly lit. I make out people sitting at tables, flames flickering on each one. Other shapes are moving around the room. I look at the front door. It is jet black and on the front is painted in white letters THE ASYLUM.

Too late to back out now. Let’s hope there aren’t lunatics waiting for me inside.

I’m tingling with apprehension, my fingers shaking slightly as I push the door open. It’s unlatched and moves slowly and heavily under my force. Inside is a small lobby. A lantern in the shape of a star hangs from a chain, sending out a muffled light. There is a small printed notice, framed:
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

What
is
this place?

I take a few steps inside. No one is there to stop me, though there is a chair and a table with a leather-bound book open on it, a silver pen in an old-fashioned holder and an inkwell. There is also a black tin box with
The Asylum
written on it in gold lettering.

The doorway to the bar is clear, and I advance cautiously, blinking to get used to the dimly lit interior beyond. There are people, very smartly dressed and sophisticated, drinking at the tables, and there is the faint murmur of conversation. Wine glasses, champagne flutes and cocktail tumblers glint where the candlelight catches them. But my eye is drawn beyond that, to the back of the bar, where I can see a line of cages hanging from the ceiling from chains. Inside each one, there is a person. I peer through the shadows.

Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?

I’m looking at a woman, dressed only in black underwear, her wrists in cuffs that are joined by a long chain. She has high stilettos on, leather straps criss-crossing up her legs. Her face is half covered by a mask that glitters and shines with encrusted metal, and her hair is tightly bound. She is grasping the bars of her cage, moving subtly and sensuously, stretching out her limbs as much as she can in the confined space. The others in the cages are similar: women in very little, their faces covered, all shackled in some way. One is a man, his torso bare, wearing a minute pair of leather shorts. He is chained by a spiked neck collar to the roof of his cage and he stares constantly at its floor.

As I watch, still trying to take in what I’m seeing, a man in a smart business suit approaches one of the cages. The girl inside sits up and holds herself so that she can be examined. The man leans forward and mutters something to her, and she bows her head, then sinks down into a kind of obeisance in front of him. He talks more through the bars and she subtly nods. A moment later, he is opening the cage, and pulling her out by the chain between her wrists. She goes with him without resistance, following as he leads the way between the tables.

What’s happening? Is this some kind of brothel? Is that really the kind of place Mr R and his girlfriend like to hang out?

‘What are you doing here? Who are you?’

The voice is sharp and aggressive. I jump and turn to see a man. At first sight he seems ordinary enough – medium height and dressed in black – but he is terrifying. His head is shaved bald and one half of his face and scalp is tattooed all over in a swirling, primitive pattern. The effect is freakish and frightening. His eyes glow at me, furious and threatening. They are so pale that they are almost white.

‘How did you get in here?’ he demands. A few people nearby turn to look, but evidently have no interest in what’s unfolding at the door. Perhaps they’re used to this sort of thing.

‘I  . . . I . . . the door was open . . .’ I stammer, flushing. I can feel my hands begin to shake again. ‘I thought . . .’

‘This is a private club, members only,’ he hisses. ‘You are expressly forbidden. Now get the hell out and stop nosing around where you don’t belong.’

His gaze is white hot with scorn. I feel like a naughty child, humiliated in front of everyone. I cower under his threatening attitude, a helpless fool.

‘You heard me,’ he says in that nasty hiss. ‘Get out
now
, or I’ll escort you out myself.’

I find the power to move from somewhere and stumble past him, into the small lobby and out of the door. I’m climbing the staircase towards the street, tears stinging my eyes, trembling, horrified by what’s just happened.

What’s the point? Why did I bother thinking I might be able to find a place in this horrible city? Why did I spend all that money on trying to pretend I’m a proper woman when I’m so stupid?

It all seems so hopeless. Adam was right to dump me. I’m never going to be able to become what I long to be. As I stand under the lamppost on the street level, I begin to cry in earnest, grateful that there are so few people about. I’m scrabbling in the coat pocket, hoping I’ll find a packet of tissues there, as tears roll down my face. I sniff hugely and wipe the tears away with the back of my hand. All it’s taken is a few unkind words and I’m a mess, lonelier than ever.

‘Hey, are you okay?’

I look up at the source of the voice but I’m blinded by tears. It’s familiar, though. Surely I’ve heard it before . . .

‘You’re crying. Can I help you? Are you lost?’

I look up and see him, his face illuminated in the light from the street lamp and the concern obvious in his eyes. Just as I realise who I’m looking at, and my stomach is taking a graceful swoop and dive towards my shoes, his expression changes. He frowns and smiles at the same time, looking bemused. ‘Hey, you’re the girl from Celia’s flat. What on earth are you doing here?’

‘I . . . I . . .’ I blink up at him. He’s incredible close up, and his nearness robs me of the power of rational thought for the moment. All I can think about is how beautiful those eyes are, so intense and powerful under the strong black brows, and how perfect his mouth is. What must it be like to have those lips kiss you, to caress that handsome face? I want to reach out and stroke my finger down his strong jawline and feel the roughness of the dark shadow of stubble I can see there.

‘Are you lost?’ He looks concerned.

I nod, trying not to sniff again. ‘I came out for a walk,’ I manage to say.
Oh God, don’t let me get the hiccups, please . . .
‘I must have come further than I thought.’

‘Hey.’ His dark eyes seem to glitter in the light from the streetlamp. ‘Please, don’t cry. It’s going to be all right. I’m going to take you home.’

‘But . . .’ I’m about to ask if he’s going into the club when I remember that this will be a dead giveaway ‘. . . aren’t you busy? I don’t want to interrupt your evening.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he says almost brusquely. ‘I’m not leaving you here alone. I said I’ll take you home.’

I’m worried I’ve annoyed him. He pulls a phone from his pocket, taps out a message and sends it, then looks back at me. His expression is strangely stern. ‘There. All done. Now let’s get you back where you belong.’

My tears vanish as I realise, to my astonishment, I’m walking back through the streets of Soho with Mr R. He’s in one of his immaculate business suits, and as he walks beside me I guess he’s over six feet tall – tall enough to tower over my five feet and six inches. He walks easily at my side, making sure that he doesn’t stride on too far so that I have to trot to keep up. I’ve got a sensation of warm lightness that feels like helium inside a balloon. Any moment now, I’m going to start floating if I’m not careful.

When we go through a crowd of teenage tourists standing outside some fast food joint and filling up the pavement, he puts a hand in the small of my bag and guides me through them. As we emerge the other side, I can barely speak with the excitement that courses through me at his touch. When he takes his hand away, I feel bereft.

‘You really came a long way,’ he says, frowning. ‘Didn’t you bring a map? Do you have a map function on your phone?’

I shake my head, feeling silly. ‘Stupid of me.’

He almost seems to glower at me for a moment as he mutters, ‘Really very stupid. It can be dangerous out here you know.’ Then he appears to relent. ‘Well, something tells me you’re not used to London.’

‘No. It’s my first time.’

‘Really? So how do you know Celia?’ If he was angry with me, he seems to have put it behind him now. His eyes look warmer now.

‘She’s my father’s godmother. She’s been in my life for as long as I can remember but I don’t know her very well. I mean, I’ve only seen her a few times and I’ve never visited her before. I was amazed when she wanted me to look after her flat for her.’

‘I can understand why you leapt at the chance.’

Do people assume we’re together? Maybe they think he’s my boyfriend . . . . could they? He’s so incredibly gorgeous, though . . .

As we walk along heading west towards Mayfair, I can’t help taking in everything about him. His hands are beautiful: strong and broad with long squarish fingers. I wonder what they would be like on my skin, how they would feel on my bare back. The thought makes me shiver lightly. His clothes are all very expensive-looking, and he carries himself easily but without a trace of the kind of arrogance you might expect from a man who looks like him.

He starts to talk about Celia, how he’s got to know her through the fact that their flats face each other.

Really? No kidding!

I try to look innocent and it doesn’t seem to occur to him that I might have been watching him.

‘Her apartment is incredible, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘I’ve had coffee there with her once or twice. Amazing woman. So interesting – the stories she has to tell about her career!’ He laughs and shakes his head and I laugh too. It seems that he knows her much more than even my father does. The way he speaks of her makes me want to get to know Celia properly.

‘She’s the kind of person I’d like to be when I get to her age,’ he continues, ‘ageing gracefully but holding on to that zest for life. But I worry about her too. No matter how energetic she seems, she’s getting on. She’d hate to admit she’s the slightest bit vulnerable, but I keep a quiet eye on her, just in case anything should happen.’

He’s kind as well. Oh God, kill me now!

‘But you know Celia,’ he says jokily. ‘She’s seventy-two years young, right? I have a feeling she’s going to be just fine. She’ll probably outlive us all, and still be climbing Mount Everest when we’re too tired to climb the stairs.’

The atmosphere between us has lightened now that my tears have vanished, and the anger he seemed to feel at my lost state has gone. We’re coming closer to Randolph Gardens. I slow my pace a little, hoping to draw out the time we have together. Any moment now, we’re going to be home and then we’ll go our separate ways. I don’t want it happen. I’m enjoying the crackle of electricity I am sure I can feel between us.

Then he stops and turns to face me. ‘You’re all on your own, aren’t you?’

I nod. He gazes at me for a moment with a searching expression, then says softly, ‘Why don’t you come up to my flat? You look like you could use a cup of coffee, and I don’t want you going back to Celia’s place still feeling upset. Besides, I’ve been talking so much, I don’t know anything about you.’

I’ve loved listening to his voice. It’s warm and pleasant, a deep, capable voice.
Would I like to come up for coffee?
My heart starts to beat faster, a shakiness possesses me. ‘That would be very nice,’ I say, my voice coming out a little higher than I intended. ‘Yes, please.’

‘Good, that’s settled. Let’s go in.’ He turns to lead the way up the steps and then stops, and looks back at me. I’m petrified in case he’s about to change his mind, but he says, ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Beth. It’s Beth.’

‘Beth. That’s nice.’ He smiles at me, one of those heart-breaking smiles. ‘I’m Dominic.’

Then he turns and carries on into the apartment block, and I follow behind.

Once we’re in the lift, I find the closeness of our bodies so electric that I can hardly breathe. I can’t look up at him, but I’m intensely aware of the way his arm is brushing mine and that with the tiniest of movements we’d be pressed against one another.

What if the lift stopped? What if we were trapped in here?
I see him suddenly in my imagination, his mouth hard on mine, his arms pulling me tightly to him.
Oh God.
It makes all sort of weird fireworks go off in my belly. I steal a glance at him from under my lashes. I feel almost sure that he’s feeling something of this strange electricity too.

I’m almost glad when the lift judders to a halt and I can breathe properly again. I follow him out into the corridor. It’s very odd to be on the opposite side of the building. Now that we’re inside and away from the street, I’m feeling shyer by the minute. Add to that the fact that everything here is the same but the other way around. It’s an Alice-through-the-Looking-Glass feeling as he leads me to the front door and unlocks it.

Dominic smiles. ‘Come on in. And don’t worry, I meant to say earlier – I’m not an axe murder. Not on Thursdays, anyway.’

I laugh. It never occurred to me for a second that I might not be safe with him. He’s Celia’s friend, isn’t he? I know exactly where he lives. It’s fine.

Inside, the first thing I see is my own reflection in his hall mirror, and the expression of horror that greets me when I clock what’s happened to my sophisticated look. My hair, so beautifully twirled and waved earlier, has dropped and is hanging limply around my face. My make-up has worn off and I’m pale-cheeked, with swollen pink eyes and some lovely inky mascara effects underneath. Great. So much for Miss Sophistication.

‘Oh,’ I say out loud.

‘What’s wrong?’ he says as he shrugs off his jacket, giving me a tantalising glimpse of the outline of muscled arms beneath his shirt.

‘My mascara is everywhere, I look a mess.’

‘Here.’ He come up close to me, and then, to my astonishment, he puts the ball of his thumb under my eye and rubs gently.