Forty 2 Days (The Billionaire Banker) (6 page)

A business call comes through for Fleur.  She asks if I mind her taking it.  I say no and spend my time looking at the shoppers on the street, my stomach rolling with anxiety.

The car comes to a stop outside a brightly painted corner shop called Bijou.

Fleur pushes open an old-fashioned door and a quaint bell tinkles.  A waft of carpet deodorant rushes out to greet us.  The small shop is so crammed with clothes, jewelry, hats, bags and shoes and so different from the usual pared down designer shop that Fleur usually takes me to that I actually have the impression of having stumbled into Aladdin’s secret cave.  

A well-preserved small woman of indeterminate age stands from behind an ornate desk and comes forward to greet and air kiss Fleur on both her cheeks.  Her laughter is a sophisticated, heavy smoker’s rasp.  She has that sort of European chic that comes from teaming box jackets in bold colors with numerous ropes of pearls.

I am presented to Rêgine.  

She smiles at me, gives me the once-over, and bustles Fleur and me towards a couple of red velvet chairs.  When we are seated, she turns the sign on the door to closed and begins running around her overcrowded shop humming to herself.  She comes back with three different outfits.  

‘
Try that one first,’ suggests Fleur pointing to a fabulous knee-length white dress with a high mandarin collar, three jeweled cut-outs in the shape of leaves in the chest and slits up the thighs.  I take it from Madame.  The material is the softest wool.

‘
Only girls with very slim arms can wear the cheongsam,’ says Fleur.  

‘
Qui,’ agrees Madame Rêgine.  

I go behind a heavy velvet curtain, where there are three full-length mirrors.  We have no long mirrors at home.  Billie goes to Marks and Spencer’s changing rooms to see herself nude.  I strip down to my undies.  I can see that I am too skinny.  My ribs and hip bones are showing.  Not a good look.  I used to look better before.  Immediately I begin to worry if I will please Blake.  I remember how attracted to my body he was.  How he used to tell me to take my clothes off, and watch me.  Simply watch me with hungry, fascinated eyes as if I was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.  What if my body no longer excites him?  

‘
Hey, we want to see,’ calls Fleur with a laugh.

‘
Coming,’ I say, and slip into the dress.  I zip up and stare at my reflection.  Wow!  I cannot believe how well the dress flatters me.  It makes me look like I have curves.  I turn my head to look at my side—the slit that comes to mid-thigh is at once subtle
and sexy.  Feeling reassured, I pull back the curtain.  

‘
Magnifique!' sighs the throaty voice.  

Fleur grins like a Cheshire cat.  ‘You look beautiful, Lana,’ she says and I know that she is being sincere.  

‘
But wait…  I have the perfect shoes,’ calls Madame, and rushes off to the back of the shop.  

She returns with a pair of shoes that are encrusted with similar stones as the ones that edge the leaf-shaped holes in my chest.  They are like Cinderella’s glass slippers.  Only the right girl can fit into them.  I take them from her and step into them.  The shoes fit perfectly—she must have an excellent eye.  

The powdered face smiles cunningly.
 
‘Aaa…but wait….  You must have your hair up.’  

She plucks from a large vase three jeweled pins and expertly holding my hair up inserts the pins into it.  The European madam, whose age I am slowly having to revise upwards, claps her hands and declares with finality that it is, 'A
bsolument fabuleux.’

I look into the mirror and I have to agree.  Absolutely fabulous.  The dress is truly amazing.  I have never felt so glamorous or sexy in my entire life.  I look at Fleur and she is smiling.  

‘
No one can take what is truly yours away from you,’ she says, and I smile.

We come out of Bijou and Tom is waiting for us.  He puts all our packages into the boot and takes us to the celebrity hairdresser.  

‘
You let your fringe grow out,’ Bruce the celebrity hairdresser accuses.

‘
I was living in Iran.  Women are not allowed to show their hair in public.  It was easier to let it grow and pull it all back into a bun and throw a scarf over my head,’ I explain.

‘
Ah, that takes excellent care of my next “have you been anywhere nice?’ question.’

I laugh.  I like him.  He’s a rare one, a tough guy hairdresser with a good British sense of humor.  And he has a strong determined jaw and eyes that are subtle, but surely undressing me.  If I am not totally in love with Blake I could fancy him.

‘
But honestly,’ he continues, ‘what the devil possessed you to go live in that godforsaken country?’

‘
My mother hails from there.’

‘
Ah!  I hear it has very beautiful tiled baths.’

‘
It has.’  

He puts a hand out and touches my cheekbones.  ‘You have lost weight.  A fringe alone will be too harsh.  I will feather your hair from your mouth onwards to return that lost softness.’

And he does.  

Fleur gives the jeweled pins to the girl who takes over the job of drying my hair and instructs the girl to put my hair up. ‘But no hairspray,’ she says and winks at me.  ‘Men don’t like hard hair.’

The girl is finished and I am a marvelously different.  

It is also time for Fleur to say goodbye.  I feel almost tearful.  She is the only one who seems to be on my side, rooting for me.  She kisses me on the cheeks.  ‘All will be well.  Just be yourself and nothing can be more beautiful.’

Back at the waxing salon I learn that Rosa has moved back to Spain. A stout German woman with reddened hands and nails bitten to the quick takes me into the treatment room.  There is no talk about jam sandwiches consumed in front of the TV or a clever son who is in art school, only a silent, ruthless dedication to bald skin.  Gertrude strips every single hair from my body.  When I am all over a sharp shade of red and the last offensive hair is gone she heaves a large of sigh of satisfaction.  Unlike Rosa she does not offer to do my eyebrows for free.  That was from another time. When life was generous to me.

My nails are too short for a French manicure.  The girl asks me if I would like acrylic nails and for a moment I am tempted—I have never had them and they seem rather fun—but then I think of accidentally scratching Sorab’s tender skin while I am changing his nappy and I refuse.  She waves towards a shelf full of nail varnish.

‘
Choose your color.’

‘
White,’ I say.  ‘I will have the white nail polish.’

In the car I admire my nails, how pretty and clean they look.  ‘Tom,’ I say. ‘If you give me the key to the apartment you can drop me off at my place, and I’ll take a cab later to the apartment.’

‘
Oh no, Miss Bloom that would be more than my job’s worth.  I got an ear bashing for dropping you off at the shops the last time.  I can take you to your place and wait downstairs until you are ready to go to the apartment.’

He drops me off at the entrance and parks by the dark staircase to wait for my return.  

B
illie is sitting at our dining table when I enter.  The baby’s basket is sitting on the table beside her.  Surrounded by pens, watercolors, and crayons, she is bent over a large sketchpad in deep concentration.  Hair is falling over her forehead and I feel a great surge of love for her.  She looks up and smiles.

‘
Wow! That’s a seriously cool hairstyle,’ she exclaims, and springing up comes to hold my hand and twirl me around.  

‘
So you like it?’ I probe, self-consciously touching my fringe.

‘
Yeah,’ she says emphatically.  ‘If he won’t have you, I will.’

I laugh and go towards the basket.  ‘Is he asleep?’

‘
Nope.’

Sorab is waving his little arms.  I reach into the basket and lift him into my arms.  He is wearing something Billie designed and made from scratch, a bright red and yellow romper suit with big blue cloth buttons that look like flowers.

‘
Hello, darling,’ I say, my face creasing into the first joy-filled smile since I left the house.

He stares at me with his intense blue eyes for a few seconds before he breaks into one of his deliciously toothless grins.

Over my shoulder Billie says, ‘Shame he will have to grow up to be a man.’

I turn around and look at her meaningfully.

‘
What?’ she asks.

‘
Your dad’s a man.’

‘
That remains to be seen,’ she says, and moving towards her drawings, says, ‘Come and see this.’  I follow her around the table.  I put Sorab into the crook of my arm to get a better view of her work.  She has drawn a girl’s dress.  It is not in the usual pale pink normally reserved for baby girls, but banana yellow with green apples all over it.  I have never seen anything like it in the shops.  She truly has a unique talent.  

‘
Well, what do you think?’

‘
It is so cute, I almost wish Sorab was a girl.’  

Billie smiles.  ‘You got time for a pot of tea?’

‘
I do,’ I say.  She puts the kettle on and we sit and talk.  We never mention Blake.  Until four thirty when I kiss Sorab and walk out of our front door.  Tom gets out of the car and opens the back door when he sees me come down the stairs.  I look up and Billie is standing at the balcony looking down at me.  She shifts the baby to one hand and waves.  I wave back, a feeling of dread in my stomach.

I do not let Tom carry my bags for me or take me upstairs.  I know the way.  Besides, I am dying to be alone with just my chaotic thoughts.  I go through the glass door and Mr. Nair leaps to his feet from his position behind the reception counter like a startled meerkat.  He comes towards me beaming.  

‘
Miss Bloom, Miss Bloom,’ he cries.  ‘You are back in the penthouse.  I saw all the cleaners and bags and new furniture going upstairs and I wondered who it would be.’

‘
How nice to see you again, Mr. Nair.’

He holds out his hands.  ‘Here, let me help you with your bags.’

I pull the bags out of his reach. ‘It’s OK, Mr. Nair.  They are very light.  I can manage.  Why don’t you come up tomorrow morning for a coffee instead, and we can have a nice chat, then.’

‘
Oh yes, Miss Bloom.  That will be wonderful.  It hasn’t been the same ever since you left.’

I smile.  In truth I too have missed him and his fantastic stories of an India gone by.  ‘I’ll call down tomorrow.’

‘
Goodnight, Miss Bloom.  It really is good to have you back.’

I bid him goodnight, enter the lift and slip my key card into its slot.  The doors swish close and I am borne up.  Strange, I never thought I would be coming back here again and yet here I am.  The doors open and it is all the same.  Nothing, but nothing has changed.  

I unlock the front door and open it.  The same faint fragrance of lilies that I always associate with this apartment wafts out.  Such a feeling of nostalgia rushes over me that I feel my knees go weak.  I close the door, put my packages on the side table, and walk down that long enameled corridor.  I run my fingers along the cool smooth wall the way I had done more than a year ago.  

I don’t go into the living room, but turn off and go into the bedroom.  A sob rises in my throat.  Nothing has changed even here.  It is as if I was here yesterday and not more than a year ago.  I go into the room next to it and, as Laura promised, it has been set up to function as a nursery.  There is a beautiful white and blue cot, all kinds of toys, a very swanky-looking pram and tins of baby formula.  I go to them.  I recognize them.  I have seen them advertised, all natural and made of goat’s milk, but I could not afford them.  I pick one up and look at it and experience a shaft of guilt.  

I have denied Sorab all this.  Am I really doing the right thing by him?  Will he thank me one day for depriving him of a life that 99.99 percent of people can only dream of?  The answer is confusing and I don’t want to go there.  I know I will go there, it is too important not to, but not yet.  Not today.  It is already six o’clock.  

I close the door and go into the bathroom and switch on the lights.  In the immaculate space I am a stranger with a beautiful hairdo.  I stare at myself.  The night stretches out in front of me.  I am excited and fearful of what it will bring.  I sit on the toilet seat for a moment to compose myself.

I take my dress out of the exclusive-looking bag Rêgine packed it in and hang it up in the bedroom.  Then I run a bath, add lavender oil, step into it, and, lying back, close my eyes, but I am too nervous and excited to relax and after a few minutes I get out and, wrapping myself in a fluffy bathrobe that smells of squashed berries, I go into the kitchen.  

In the fridge there I find two bottles of champagne lying on their sides.  I remember the last time when I stood in the balcony and drank to my mother’s health.  This time champagne doesn’t seem appropriate.  I close the door restlessly and go to the liquor cabinet.  There I pour myself a very large shot of vodka.  Standing by the bar I knock it back.  It runs like fire into my empty stomach, but it has the desired effect of almost immediately settling my nerves.  I look at my hands.  They have stopped shaking.

I go back into the bathroom and carefully apply my make-up.  Two layers of mascara, a touch of blusher, and nude lip gloss.  I move away from the mirror.