‘Mr Lionel Nzangu. It is his son. They run a business to help people come to London. But I thought it was for cleaning work. He didn’t say …’
Violet’s heart thuds and she sees now that she has no choice, she has to let the slum girl stay in her flat. But before she can get the words out of her mouth, Arthur pipes up, ‘You can come and stay with us. We’ve got a spare room.’
The girl beams, flashing her chipped tooth. ‘That is very kind. I will clean your flat. God will reward you.’
Violet is left with the guilty feeling that she has not been kind. She wonders how Mary Atiemo will get on with Greg. Should she warn her? But what could she say?
‘I’ve got to go. I’m supposed to be at work.’
She hates being late — punctuality, her Grandma Njoki used to tell her, was among the benefits brought by Britain to backward people. But now she’ll be leaving soon it doesn’t seem to matter so much.
She runs up the stairs two at a time and knocks on Berthold’s door.
Berthold: My Crappy Jokes
I didn’t have the means to take Violet out to Luigi’s to celebrate the temporary reprieve of the cherry trees, so I invited her to come up to the flat for a coffee instead. Not coffee from the Clooney coffee machine, not even Gold Blend, but Lidl own-brand. That’s what we were reduced to.
‘I can’t stay long,’ she said. ‘I’m supposed to be at work.’
‘Work?’
‘I work in International Wealth Preservation.’
‘Blimey, I could do with a bit of that.’
She giggled as if I’d said something hilarious, and I thought, if Meredith had still been alive, she would have been roughly the same age as Violet, giggling at my crappy jokes.
‘I think the cherry trees’ll be all right for the time being. Thanks to you, Berthold. But you need to keep an eye on Len. He’s had a funny turn.’ She flashed a smile, finished her coffee quickly and was gone.
A few minutes later, I saw her crossing the grove wearing a rather fetching little lilac outfit, stopping briefly to chat with the colourfully dressed elders from the tent, who were sitting out on the bench in the sunshine.
‘Nice girl, but skinny.’ Inna was putting Flossie’s cage out on to the balcony so she could enjoy the sunshine. ‘Too young. Need more fat. Other one, fatty council lady, look better for you.’ She fixed me with a shrewd eye. ‘You still homosexy, Mister Bertie?’
I shrugged, not dignifying her absurd obsession with a reply. To me Violet seemed not skinny but perfectly formed. However, Inna had identified something that was puzzling me too. Although Violet had seized my heart, strangely my lust had been stirred not by her but by plump, ageing Mrs Penny. There was something urgent in her desire that roused a response in me. Likewise the Immortal Bard’s passion was torn between the dark lady of his lust and the blond angel of his spirit. Sometimes the male beast is a mystery, even to men. I sighed.
‘It’s time for lunch. Let’s open a tin of tuna.’ I buttered some bread, and chopped up a lettuce. ‘You were going to tell me about your murky past in Moldova, Inna.’
Violet: Print
‘So you’re going to tell me why you’re looking for a new job, Violet?’ Gillian Chalmers perches like a tiny blonde bird behind her vast polished desk on which are two porcelain cups, both empty, and a pile of slip cases in different colours. The monitor shows a picture of the Lloyd’s Building at night, the windows blazing with light. ‘It seems like a very sudden decision. Why didn’t you come and talk to me first?’
Gillian’s eyes are sharp like pencil leads. A mesh of fine wrinkles is etched on her skin and deeper lines around her mouth. She read somewhere that women who spend too long in front of a computer develop wrinkles.
‘I just …’ she starts apologetically. Gillian’s grey gaze confuses her. ‘I know I should have …’
From across the desk, she can smell Gillian’s subtle perfume and a faint horsey whiff of ashwagandha. The light slanting through the blinds throws a criss-cross of shadows across her face like a cage. This remote, trapped, ageing woman seems a million miles away from the tigerish go-getter she saw in action in the Lloyd’s Building.
‘The thing is, Violet, you should have asked me first, before putting my name down for a reference. It puts me in a difficult position.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. You were away in Bucharest, and I didn’t want to miss the deadline.’
‘Mmm. Well, I wish you every success finding a new job, Violet. But I need to know why you want to leave GRM.’
‘It’s hard to explain,’ Violet mumbles. ‘It’s a matter of principle.’
‘Oh? Principle? That sounds interesting. Tell me more.’ Gillian leans forward on her elbows. She looks tired and irritable. Her mascara has run into the creases of skin under her eyes. The office is cold but she has the air con on full blast, and is warming herself up with a cup of ashwagandha that looks like faintly tinted hot water.
‘So. Wealth Preservation turned out to be … not what I expected. I didn’t agree with the practice of setting up shell companies in tax havens. In poor countries like Kenya, you see, when rich people take money out, there’s less to go around for schools and hospitals, and … it just didn’t seem right.’
‘Ah. It didn’t seem right.’ Gillian’s expression is blank, apart from the pencil-point eyes, fixed on her face. ‘And what about Marc Bonnier? Did you have a disagreement with him?’
She shivers. Surely Gillian knows of Marc’s reputation, like everybody else at GRM. He probably told her himself, smiling his twinkling smile, not exactly bragging, but giving the impression that he was a bit of a lad.
‘It’s not a personal disagreement, if that’s what you mean.’ She takes a breath. ‘I told him I didn’t think it was ethical, facilitating tax evasion in poor countries. I’m not criticising Marc. I just don’t want to be part of it.’
‘But it is personal, isn’t it?’ The pencil-point eyes seem to bore into her. ‘You can tell me the truth, Violet.’
Her mind searches for neutral words which don’t sound accusing or vengefuclass="underline" that would be cheap. She doesn’t want to get back at him — she just wants to learn her lesson and move on. But Gillian isn’t making it easy for her. Keeping her tone even, she describes how she found the inflated invoices for the buckets.
‘Marc said it was the way business is done here. I decided it wasn’t for me.’
‘That’s interesting.’ Gillian sits back, and tilts her head. Her expression doesn’t alter. ‘As it happens, I agree with you, Violet. It’s unethical, and it’s not the way we do things at GRM. Can you forward me the invoices?’
‘Yes. I’ll try.’
‘Thank you. If you prefer, you can come back to International Insurance?’
She considers the possibility, but only for a moment. The world outside of GRM, even with all its chaos and hardship, has more attraction. ‘I think I’d like to try something different.’
‘Well, please give me the details of this job you’re applying for.’
She takes a gulp of breath and makes a split-second decision. ‘It’s with an NGO based in Nairobi that encourages women’s enterprise across southern Africa. You see, women are often the family breadwinners, and a small input of capital and training can make a massive difference to —’ She stops.
Gillian is staring out of the window, expressionless.
‘I’ll be pleased to give you a reference, Violet.’ The lines around her mouth have softened, but her eyes still look sad.
By the time she leaves Gillian’s office it is almost one o’clock, and people are starting to stream towards the elevators for lunch. On impulse, she takes the lift up to the fourth floor, and walks along the corridor past Marc’s office. The door is closed, but she can see through the peephole in the frosted glass that he’s not in. She still remembers the key code. Her heart is beating hard, but she knows this is her only chance; another time, she won’t get past security into the building without an appointment. If he returns, she’ll make up some excuse. She taps in the code and opens the door.