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Angela didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, he’s married and seeing you on the side.”
“No.”
“Well, where does he live?” asked Erika, now beaming.
“I don’t... I think in one of those new towers they built on the East End a couple of years ago. But he only took me there a couple of times and I never paid much attention.”
Where did he live? The cabby had always been waiting for them and she’d always been too preoccupied to pay much attention to where he was taking her.
“He’s married.”
Vickey grit her teeth, growing angry with that smug smile playing across her roommate’s peach coloured lips. “No, he’s not.”
Angela gave her a withering look. “Oh, have a day off, Vick. He doesn’t tell you anything about himself, works weird hours, takes you back to a flat that could be anywhere in the city for all you know-”
“What about his phone?” Erika asked.
Vickey rounded on her. “What about it?”
“W-was he on it a lot?” Her friend seemed to shrink under her glare. “Did he ever try and hide it from you, refuse to let you use it or-”
“No, Erika. I never asked to use his phone, and he never made a big deal out of it. He’s not married, so just drop it.” Knowing she needed to calm dawn, Vickey grabbed the Rum and Coke and took a drink. It didn’t help. “And what does it matter now? It’s over, remember? I broke it off. Not him. Me!”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Erika pressed on regardless, though changing tact, as if worried the accusations had somehow insulted her. “You certainly wouldn’t be the first. My mum once met this guy who had a girlfriend and a wife, he… he told them all he drove juggernauts so they wouldn’t-”
“He’s not married!” Vickey snapped, with more certainty than she had any right to have. The hot ice of her tone cutting off any remaining argument Erika might have had and made her friend’s eyes drop to stare at the now empty cider glass.
Vickey immediately regretted being so sharp with her. She hadn’t meant to be, but she couldn’t help it. He wasn’t married, she just knew it. Men lying about their marriage didn’t turn up with the sorts of bruises Jake would sprout overnight. Or look at her the way he had; as if he were looking into her, to the centre of her being. No one had ever looked at her that way before. He can’t be married. He just can’t!
Angela nervously cleared her throat. “What did he think about your dad’s breakout?”
“He didn’t know.”
“But… how?” Erika looked up, surprise written across her face. “Your dad’s escape from Belmarsh was all over the news.”
“I told him my surname’s Romano. It was my mother’s maiden name.”
“So, you never...” Erika paused.
“What?”
Angela leaned forward, voice hushed. “Told him about your family?”
Vickey snorted, “Of course not. God, what do you suggest? Shag him senseless, then go, Hey, babe, that was wild. Oh, by the way, you know that escaped murderer who’s been all over the news? That’s my dad. I’ve heard some crazy pillow talk, but that about takes the biscuit. Then just for kicks, I could add, ‘And if the wrong person sees us together, Terrance Daley is likely to cut your cock off and feed you your balls’.” She gave another dry laugh, then threw back the remains of the Rum and Coke, ignoring the way her friends exchanged worried looks at the mention of Daley.
Forty years ago, Terrance Daley - or just Terry to his friends, the River Police, Flying Squad, and Daily Mail readers- had been an infamous enforcer of Freddie Foreman. Five years ago, The Mail had called him The People's King of London, but Vickey had only ever known him as Uncle Terry.
Suddenly, she was there again. In that room. The night cold and crawling over her skin, fingers grasping her chin, sour breath reeking of whisky hissing in her ear. “Good girl, now lie down on the bed and let Uncle Terry see…”
“Jesus! Vickey… Vickey!” Angela and Erika stood around her. “You’re as white as a sheet.”
“What’s wrong? You feelin’ alright?”
“Y… yeah. I’m fine.” Christ, where did that come from?
She shook her head, trying to clear the fog, and suddenly was all too aware of the sweat clinging to her brow. Then, she realised just about every head in the bar was watching their table. “Listen… I’ve got to go.”
“What?”
