and frowns at Staffe, sussing him for precisely what he is. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong,’ she says.
Staffe ignores her, clocks that a final demand for her council tax is lying on the Guardian : ‘Ms Petal Broome’ of 102 Devonshire Road. He mooches around the bookshop, winding up and down between the shelves which go back and back. The books are mainly fiction and travel but there are good sections on politics and biography, too. They are alphabetised and fairly priced. Every now and then he takes a book down, flicks through, thinking about the lives the books have had before. It makes him wish he had more time to read.
Ms Broome comes up to him, says, ‘I’m going for a fag. Don’t nick nowt.’
‘Don’t you want to know why I’m here?’
‘Couldn’t give a toss. I’m clean.’
‘There’s a woman shops here, mid-twenties, smartly dressed. She comes regularly. Called Zoe.’
‘Zoe. She won’t take no money for them. The deal is, we buy our books back. We pay half what they paid if they bring them back, so long as they’re in good nick. We sell some dozens of times. It’s a good cause.’
‘Who do you give your profits to?’
‘It’s a co-op. There’s plenty causes – political, like. We’re very political.’
‘When did you last see Zoe?’
The woman shrugs.
‘She’s missing, Petal.’
‘How d’you know my name?’
‘I want to help her. We’re not all bastards, you know.’
Petal shrugs. ‘She’s nice enough. Sometimes, she brings me ginseng tea. Proper stuff. Not Starbucks shit. What’s happened to her? She was having a baby.’
‘Do you believe in a woman’s right to choose, Petal?’
‘Up to the woman to decide if she’s a right to choose. She’d be due soon. She’ll have finished that Toni Morrison, and an A.L. Kennedy.’
‘Do you have another Beloved ?’
Petal slinks away and comes back with a dog-eared copy. He gives her a fiver. When Petal gives him the change, he leaves a quid for her, says, ‘Have a ginseng tea.’
‘Week or so since she’s been in. She’s not come to no harm, has she?’
Staffe gives her a card with his number on, can practically hear Petal’s cogs whirr. ‘She’s in trouble. That’s for sure. Do you have anything to tell me?’
Petal shakes her head.
‘You ever see her with anyone else? A fella?’
‘A fella? Nah.’
‘A woman, then. Or women?’
Petal shakes her head.
‘If she’s a friend of yours, you should tell me if Zoe said anything unusual. If she was planning a change.’
‘She can’t change. She’s got a baby coming, hasn’t she?’ Petal says this with a disapproving gurn of her face. ‘Look, I hope she’s OK, I really do. She’s a good woman, an intelligent woman, but I’ve nothing to say about that girl.’
*
Pulford says to Josie, ‘I could go in on my own, you know.’
‘You think it’s too risqué for me, David?’ She gives him a knowing, sidelong glance and looks up at the Rendezvous. ‘You should know better than that.’ A distant memory wafts through the unilluminated glass doors. Tonight, the curious will queue beneath the pink and blue neon, waiting for their fix of Phillip Ramone’s taste of old Soho. He was here before they cleaned it up. And he’s still here.
Pulford raps on the glass and they wait.
Josie came here with a hen party, years and years ago, and then just a couple of years since, on a weird date. She should have known better. The Rendezvous is no place for a second date.
Nobody comes and Pulford raps again.
The bloke who brought her here was a doctor, for crying out loud, and he had tried to show her the middle toilet: one for girls, one for boys, and the middle one for the unsure or inquisitive. Doctor Finney had certainly possessed an enquiring mind.
Inside, the light flickers on and a big man comes. He walks slowly, wide-gaited, as if he has a problem ‘down there’. He mouths something through the glass and his face is angry. He has black stubble
Staffe ignores her, clocks that a final demand for her council tax is lying on the Guardian : ‘Ms Petal Broome’ of 102 Devonshire Road. He mooches around the bookshop, winding up and down between the shelves which go back and back. The books are mainly fiction and travel but there are good sections on politics and biography, too. They are alphabetised and fairly priced. Every now and then he takes a book down, flicks through, thinking about the lives the books have had before. It makes him wish he had more time to read.
Ms Broome comes up to him, says, ‘I’m going for a fag. Don’t nick nowt.’
‘Don’t you want to know why I’m here?’
‘Couldn’t give a toss. I’m clean.’
‘There’s a woman shops here, mid-twenties, smartly dressed. She comes regularly. Called Zoe.’
‘Zoe. She won’t take no money for them. The deal is, we buy our books back. We pay half what they paid if they bring them back, so long as they’re in good nick. We sell some dozens of times. It’s a good cause.’
‘Who do you give your profits to?’
‘It’s a co-op. There’s plenty causes – political, like. We’re very political.’
‘When did you last see Zoe?’
The woman shrugs.
‘She’s missing, Petal.’
‘How d’you know my name?’
‘I want to help her. We’re not all bastards, you know.’
Petal shrugs. ‘She’s nice enough. Sometimes, she brings me ginseng tea. Proper stuff. Not Starbucks shit. What’s happened to her? She was having a baby.’
‘Do you believe in a woman’s right to choose, Petal?’
‘Up to the woman to decide if she’s a right to choose. She’d be due soon. She’ll have finished that Toni Morrison, and an A.L. Kennedy.’
‘Do you have another Beloved ?’
Petal slinks away and comes back with a dog-eared copy. He gives her a fiver. When Petal gives him the change, he leaves a quid for her, says, ‘Have a ginseng tea.’
‘Week or so since she’s been in. She’s not come to no harm, has she?’
Staffe gives her a card with his number on, can practically hear Petal’s cogs whirr. ‘She’s in trouble. That’s for sure. Do you have anything to tell me?’
Petal shakes her head.
‘You ever see her with anyone else? A fella?’
‘A fella? Nah.’
‘A woman, then. Or women?’
Petal shakes her head.
‘If she’s a friend of yours, you should tell me if Zoe said anything unusual. If she was planning a change.’
‘She can’t change. She’s got a baby coming, hasn’t she?’ Petal says this with a disapproving gurn of her face. ‘Look, I hope she’s OK, I really do. She’s a good woman, an intelligent woman, but I’ve nothing to say about that girl.’
*
Pulford says to Josie, ‘I could go in on my own, you know.’
‘You think it’s too risqué for me, David?’ She gives him a knowing, sidelong glance and looks up at the Rendezvous. ‘You should know better than that.’ A distant memory wafts through the unilluminated glass doors. Tonight, the curious will queue beneath the pink and blue neon, waiting for their fix of Phillip Ramone’s taste of old Soho. He was here before they cleaned it up. And he’s still here.
Pulford raps on the glass and they wait.
Josie came here with a hen party, years and years ago, and then just a couple of years since, on a weird date. She should have known better. The Rendezvous is no place for a second date.
Nobody comes and Pulford raps again.
The bloke who brought her here was a doctor, for crying out loud, and he had tried to show her the middle toilet: one for girls, one for boys, and the middle one for the unsure or inquisitive. Doctor Finney had certainly possessed an enquiring mind.
Inside, the light flickers on and a big man comes. He walks slowly, wide-gaited, as if he has a problem ‘down there’. He mouths something through the glass and his face is angry. He has black stubble
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