Suck a lemon

Suck a lemon to drive away the scurvy, or was that limes? Leave it on the side of the cut glass the lemon tint fractured through the ice. Run my lemony finger around the edge and a song like a siren splits the air bringing a whole new meaning to ‘Crystal clear.’ My eyes peep over the glass, watching. Three hours later and the dance floor is thinning, the shimmerings of silken music playing through the air and glinting off the people-less walls. The bar is still thronged but pulsing to a different beat, the hurried chink of glass on metal has dulled to a slow slur of chatter and the dull throb of tiered feet in ridiculous heels. I slide my slice of lemon over my palm sticky between my fingers. “Care for another?” my companion enquires. I smile at him, tartly like the lemon, and shake my head. “You’re not very talkative are you?” he pursues. There’s a lazy drawl to his accent which lingers in the air around us making him impossible to ignore. “I’m tiered” I reply at last, though begrudgingly, and I turn away, cutting him out as best I can. “I think I should go now” My dress shimmers round my legs as I turn, back and forth, hugging my legs as I move. He’s got the picture now and moved on; I can see his dark head making its way through the crowd towards a small group of women in the corner. He moves with a swagger characteristic of his country-men, a lazy wheeling gate which starts with his rolling shoulders and a languid tilt of the head and extends down his arms to his dismissive hands. He’s a hansom man, powerfully built, with dark tanned skin probably from some Spanish influence and waves of thick black hair. His manner radiates influence, and power, a socialite, a climber, perhaps a swinger. I toy with the idea, rotating it in my head. I find imagining him naked pleasing, it makes him appear vulnerable. He’s talking to a young blonde now; she’s tall and stately with a long elegant neck that cranes towards him, listening smilingly to his polite offer of a drink. A few minutes later he moves off towards the bar and I lose him in the crowd of people still hankering after drinks. I look at my watch, 1:25. Five minutes and I can go. I begin to make my way towards the door, madam Hillaire is standing there, thanking her guests and overseeing the distribution of coats. She is a slim elegant woman, a little too slim to be fashionable, and a little to elegant to be approachable. Well aged, too well aged, I think, plastic surgery without a doubt. The husband will have paid for it. A cigarette is draped fashionably from her top lip and a cloud of blue smoke is wafting around her billowing with little currents of intention. I move towards her and give my sickly thanks for a “wonderful evening” The words are sharp on my tongue; I can taste the lemon in my puckered mouth.

I step outside into the dark night, the air is cold and I regret having left my coat at home. I can almost hear the starts glinting scornfully in the sky above me. My taxi is waiting. “Where to?”

“Trafalgar square.” I reply. The streets of London sparkle past the window. I love the city at night, there’s a yawning rumble instead of the crushing daily filth. It seems more friendly, more comforting. People are in less of a hurry, people needn’t be so guarded. The half-light from the street lamps and shop windows mellows the tone and there are pools of light to dance between.

I settle back into the cool leather seats, I can feel the satin of my dress flowing over the chair, its silvery descent like the moon reflected in water. I run over the evening in my head, madam Hillaire with her sophisticated guests and their dull chatter, the American and his languid air (that I could be so confident) the young woman and her fragile neck.

“£7; 40 love” The taxi driver is saying, bursting into my thoughts. I pay him and step out into the night. It’s cool after the warmth of the taxi; I hug my arms to me feeling the delicate fabric of my shawl smooth against my pale forearms. He’s there already, a solitary figure stood beside one of the lions, his hand resting possessively on the dark stone. “Was she there?” he says simply, gently, allowing the words to fly out into the night.

“Good evening.” I say, ignoring his question. He smiles sardonically and pats the lion on its stony paw reassuringly as if reassuring it that it can devour me later.

“So she was there.” He says. He has small dimples in either cheek which laugh at me as he speaks. I nod staring straight back at him. He nods back as if we were playing some bizarre duel, or the childhood game of who will blink first.

“Go on” I think, “Dare to look away.” I carry on watching him unfolding my arms and leaning casually against the base of the plinth. My companion smiles and looks up at the sky.

“Nice night” he says casually “shall we?” and he offers me his arm wrapped up warmly in a black car-coat. I’m painfully aware of the night air on my skin, and the stillness of the air. I smile falsely back and run my tongue over my teeth, remembering the lemon and the swarthy American and the blonde tart.

We walked towards the palace, through the park. The lake to my left is an inky black and I think how easy it would be for him to push me in. He seems me along the path, dark under the canopy of the trees the gravel making a chewing sound of teeth on teeth, biting through the night silence. My heels are fabric covered, sinking into the path but I don’t say anything and he doesn’t seem to notice. Perhaps he likes it that way, to have me leaning on him for support.

“She was there.” I say slowly. He smiles as if he’s made me say it “Who did she talk to?” He can’t keep the eagerness out of his voice now. It drips from his imploring, blue eyes, it makes me feel powerful. “It was a party John” I say “she talked to many different people.” He waits knowing I will go on, and I do. “There was one man I didn’t know.” I pause watching him. He’s like a dog now, ha laps it up. But all cornered animals will turn. I’m scared of him. He seems to devour me with his eyes, those dark cavernous eyes against his pale skin and white blonde hair. “A yank.” I say simply “Art dealer I think from what I gleaned form Hillaire.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“He offered to buy me a drink.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much, I pretended I wasn’t interested.” I examine my carefully manicured nails in feigned disinterest and he laughs. “Very wise,” he says. I can see his row of white teeth in the dark, the edge of each tooth. “We don’t want them to know who we are.”

“So its we now is it.” I stop and turn to face him. “I want to know what’s going on John, I want to know everything. I want my money, and I want a cut of the proceeds.” He looks startled but I hold my ground, this is what I’d planned for weeks. I laugh at the shocked look on his round, white little face, blonde hair, ghost like in the dark. I laugh bitterly, my low chortle crushing the air like my teeth through an ice. “You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?” I snort again. I can see that he is angry, but the power is intoxicating, I want him to be angry, I want him scared.

I can see him visibly regrouping now. Reeling in his slimy tentacles. They’re more scared of you, than you are of them, I think. “I know about the deal John.” I pause, watching him closely and go on. “I know it all. They steal the painting, you help them, then you sell in on and split the profit, I know about Hillaire, it’d be so easy for her wouldn’t it, it’s her gallery, all she has to do is make it look like an outside job, and that’s where you come in. I’ve seen letters. I know how much that painting is worth.” I say it slowly, measuredly, letting each word drip into the silence between us. “Let me in John.” I pause again. My words are a command, not a plea and he knows it. “Let me in, or I go to the police.” I let the last word ring like a siren, reverberating through the air. Defiant somehow, like shouting in church.

He moves towards me. Reaching forward and gripping my shoulder with his hand, his knuckles white. I can see right into his eyes, black pupils in the moonlight. I feel as If they will swallow me. Like I will fall in and never climb out again. I sway from the vertigo. His breath is hot on my face. Caressing in a way that makes my skin seethe. He’s smiling now, leaning over me paternally, but I stand firm, trying not to shrink away from his hot hot breath. My hand is white under my shawl clasping my phone, the number on speed dial glinting on the screen. I hold my own breath, not wanting it to give away the panic I’m feeling.

“You’re blackmailing me” he says, stating the obvious, this hand still on my shoulder. I look back at him, trying not to flinch.

He releases my arm, taking a step back from me, he’s decided to toy with me, to make me feel stupid and vulnerable.

“So you know all about it do you?” he asks, laughing quietly at me,

“You know all about Hillaire, and her little gallery opening?”

“I suppose you know how Jules is involved as well, the blonde at the party.” He looks questioningly at me, and snorts when I don’t respond. “I thought so.” He leaves the air silent, letting me writhe with fear, my fingers all the time on my phone, prickling with the desire to press the button.

“If you know so much Mary, tell me this, where do you fit into all this?” he pauses watching me and I say nothing, running my fingers over my phone, concealed by my shawl.

“Because you can blackmail me all you like, it’s my word against yours and I am the only one that wasn’t at that party.” He’s looking me straight in the flickering eyes now a searing gaze as his words come measuredly and slowly, the understanding slowly filtering in to my head.

“I’ve done nothing wrong; I’m simply buying a painting off an old friend, who is struggling with the upkeep of her gallery.” He keeps his tone is crisp, casual, leaning heavy stress on I, driving a wedge between us.

“You however have been planning to steal a rare painting with the help of your friends, Jules, Charlotte Hillaire and this yank, haven’t you Mary?” I look at him carefully; he’s been planning to frame me all along. I stare up into his smiling eyes and feel the corners of my mouth crease as I press the green button on my phone and let it dial out.

“Why did you think I needed you?” He’s laughing at me now, his blue eyes crinkling with mirth. “You, you were just a spy, dispensable.” He fires last word, a shot of contempt. “Just try to get anything on me!” he’s saying “And I’ll throw you to them. You’re up to your neck sweetheart.” I watch slowly over his shoulder as the American drifts across the grass. “How did you think you were going to win?” There’s a blue and white car behind him. “Stupid, girl” he spits it at me. I can see the roof of the car through the trees and the light, turned off, glinting blue. “You shouldn’t mess with things you can’t understand!” I step back slowly, making smooth, steady movements as if creeping away from a sleeping child until I am just out of arms reach. The American is coming just behind him now, he grins at me over John’s shoulder.

At that moment John sees my eyes looking past him and spins around to be confronted by the Policeman. “You bitch.” he whispers under his breath.

“Did you get it?” the American asks me.

“Yep” I reply, reaching inside my dress and clicking off the tape recorder. “Got it all, every word.” I smile at John as he is taken away in the police car.

“Fancy a drink?” the American enquires

“Love one” I answer, “Could do with a stiff gin and tonic.”