House of Bells Read Free Page A

much?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜How much is he paying you? A hundred, did you say? Here.’ A sheaf of folded notes, thrust into her fingers, uncounted by either one of them. ‘Just go home, Grace. Or do I need to take you?’
    No. No, not that. Never that. He needed not to see where home was now; that was suddenly rather urgent.
    As she hurried downstairs, she realized that she’d left her coat behind, but never mind. Also that she hadn’t actually said thank you. Oddly – for someone who was no good at gratitude – that seemed to matter rather more.
    As she left, she heard her name called from across the street. Stupidly, she lifted her head to look, and the camera’s flash caught her full in the face like a blow. That would be Tony’s tame photographer; that would be her all over tomorrow’s front page, then. She’d meant to slip out the back way, and forgot.
    Tony never forgot anything, and never missed his chance. Whatever he asked for tomorrow, tonight he had just what he wanted: a notorious good-time girl with her mascara smeared down her cheeks, scuttling out of a trendsetter’s party unusually early and unusually alone. Of course there was a story in that. Rampant speculation was the same thing as news. Friendship was a tool like any other. He would lend her his handkerchief and offer her the hope of escape and still send her out of the front door looking like this, still use her face tonight to sell his paper in the morning. Of course he would. She would never expect anything else.
    It wasn’t even betrayal, when he was so upfront honest about it. Tony used people without a second thought; everyone knew. If he liked you he’d be kind about it, in person and in print, but he’d still tell the story. Sell the story. He’d use his own wife, if he had one. He’d use his child, if . . .
    Oh. Damn. Now she was crying again, and that photographer was still on her heels and flashing away. Tony would be seeing his own hankie on his own front page, then.
    The sound of her own footsteps underlay all her dreams these days. Walking and walking: sharp heels on city streets, rapid and determined, getting her there. It was all she knew how to do, to keep moving. She always walked when she could. Head down, hood up, on her way. Sometimes she would walk all night, sooner than go home.
    Home meant stopping, stillness, quiet. Bed. All of those were terrible to her. And no more than she deserved, her punishment. She always did have to go home in the end. Just as she always read the papers, sooner or later. They were her punishment too.
    Tony was her affliction, the one sorrow that she didn’t think she’d earned. There always had to be something extra, the free gift at the bottom of the cereal packet. She still dug her hand in to grope for those, like a little kid. He was like that, like the aching tooth that your tongue couldn’t keep away from.
    Oysters meant Soho. Soho meant putting on a face; you never knew who you might meet, only that you were sure to meet someone. Which would be why Tony had chosen it, to get more mileage out of her. Yet more. To some people she was poison, but it never did a young man any harm to be seen out and about with poison on his arm. Nor an editor, nor an heir. With Tony you never knew quite which game he was playing, which hat he wore beneath his trendy cap. Which face he was showing to the world, or why.
    Herself, she had only the one face to show. It took an hour to paint on, even after she’d done her hair; and then a headscarf went on to hide the hair, and she did what she could to hide her face too, head down and walking briskly, always moving, not even pausing at a light. If the traffic was against her she’d just carry on, miss her turn and go out of her way, walk further than she needed to. She’d cross three sides of a square rather than stand still and be trapped in the world’s stare, feel that