TEN

The stallholder was outside when Betty left the house the next morning.

She glanced at him awkwardly and was taken aback when he smiled at her. “Morning, neighbor,” he said.

“Oh. Hi.”

“Any more thoughts about the coat?”

“Oh. Yes, definitely. Yes. I want to sell it.”

“I mentioned it to my sister. She said to take it round to her studio. Anytime.”

“Anytime, now?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, now would be OK.”

Betty hurtled back upstairs to retrieve the coat.

“Here . . .” He was feeling his pockets rather randomly. She watched him, noticing that his fingers were long and slender, that he had a tattoo on the inside of his wrist, and that his eyes were so brown they were almost black. “Here.” He pulled a small card from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her.

She glanced at it.

Alexandra Brightly.

Betty smiled. “Is that your name too?” she asked. “Brightly?”

“Yeah.” He smirked. “John Brightly. I know. Not exactly fitting. Or maybe,” he continued, deadpan, “I’ve deliberately played against type all my life.”

Betty laughed. “It’s nice,” she said. “I like it.”

He smirked again and then turned, almost abruptly, away from her.

“Thank you,” she said to his back. “Thank you very much.”

“No problem,” he said.

That appeared to be the end of their exchange.

She stood suspended in an air pocket of uncertainty, wondering what she should do next. Apropos of nothing, she turned left and then left again. She found herself outside the nice house on Peter Street. As she passed by, she noticed across the street a man with a large camera in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, although the sky was far from blue. As she watched, another man joined him, also carrying a camera and a cup of coffee. They seemed to know each other and made a few words of low-key conversation. They both turned and faced the house on Peter Street, as though waiting for something to happen. She watched them before realizing that she looked as strange as they did, and hurried on her way.

• • •

Alexandra Brightly’s studio was called 20th Century Box and was next to the Oasis Sports Centre in Covent Garden. It was up two flights of scruffy stairs in a soulless building shared with a tailor and a photographer.

“Yes?”

“Hi, my name’s Betty. Your brother, John, gave me your card. I’ve got a fur to sell.”

“Oh. Cool. OK. Come in! Second floor!”

The woman greeting Betty at the top of the stairs was tall and painfully thin, with long white-blond hair and a rather beaky nose. She was so pale, the blue of her eyes so watered down, that she almost gave the impression of albinism. She was dressed in a black chiffon shirt, a large crucifix on an overlong chain resting in the wide valley between her small breasts, and baggy jeans held together at the waist with an old leather belt. She held a fake cigarette in her right hand.

“Wow, wow, wow,” she said as her gaze fell upon the fur held like a slaughtered animal in Betty’s arms. “Wow,” she said again, resting the fake cigarette on a pattern-cutting table and putting an arm out towards the coat, running fingers as long as chopsticks through the fur. “This looks fucking awesome. Fuck. I fucking love fur.”

Her voice was husky and smoky, and her accent was half public school, half East End. She smiled at Betty, revealing smoker’s teeth. “Sorry,” she said, “I get a bit carried away sometimes. Especially by the fur. It’s so wrong, yet it’s mm”—she caressed the fur again—“sooo right. Let’s have a look, then.” She pulled half-moon glasses from the pattern-cutting table and rested them halfway down her aquiline nose. “Oh, yes,” she said, now that the fur was unfolded on the table, “oh, yes. This is amazingly good. Where did you say you got it from?”

“It was my grandmother’s.”

“Class act,” she said, opening it up and feeling the lining. “Oh yes, it’s a Gloria Maurice. I thought it would be. They always put an extra couple of animals in just for the hell of it, you know.” She peered at Betty over the top of her glasses and smiled. “Yeah,” she said, turning back to the fur. “I could definitely buy this from you. Definitely. I’m working with a production company right now, as it happens, on a period drama—nineteen-forties—they’ll love this. Let’s have a proper look at it.” She swiveled an Anglepoise lamp over the coat and began to examine it in minute detail.

Betty glanced around the studio. It was jammed full of free-standing clothes rails, each one packed with plastic-wrapped clothes, divided into themes by laminated signs: “30s dresses,” “Flapper dresses,” “50s Cocktail,” “70s/Hippy beachwear.” There were cabinets full of sunglasses and silk scarves, and mannequins in silk ball gowns and bondage punk. There were clutch bags and corsages, stilettos and bovver boots. The walls were hung with framed stills from films and TV series, and there was Alexandra snuggled up against Colin Firth and with her arm around the shoulder of Emilia Fox.

“So,” said Alexandra, turning the coat over, “how do you know my brother?”

“Oh. No. I don’t know him. Not in that way. I live in the flat next to his stall. On the market. He just mentioned you, said you might be interested in the fur. I think it was fairly obvious to him that I’m not really a fur kind of girl.”

“Aw,” said Alexandra facetiously, “bless.”

Betty recognized the dynamic; it was the same as the one between Bella and her younger brother, the grudging affection, the condescending praise. “Is he younger than you?” she asked knowingly.

“Yeah. He is my baby brother by a matter of eighteen months. And one day. And yes, I know, we look nothing alike. He is a carbon copy of our father, and I am a carbon copy of our mother. And our older sister sneakily managed to take the best of both of them and is about the most beautiful person I know.” She raised her eyebrows sardonically, then pulled the coat closed and fiddled with the hook-and-eye fastenings. Rather dramatically, she plunged her hands into the pockets of the coat with a facial expression reminiscent of that of a country vet examining a pregnant ewe. “Lovely deep pockets,” she said. And then: “Oh, this must be yours.” She pulled out a piece of folded paper.

“Oh,” Betty said, taking the paper from Alexandra’s hand. “Wow. Let me see . . .”

She opened the paper to see Arlette’s handwriting. It was her pre-stroke writing, neat and controlled, spelling out a name and address:

Peter Lawler

22a Rodney Gardens

London

SW5 3DF

Her heart leaped with excitement. “Any idea where that is?” she asked, showing the paper to Alexandra.

“Ah,” Alexandra said knowingly, “South Ken. Very smart. Friend of your grandmother’s?”

Betty shrugged. “Not that I know of. But then I think there are a few things we didn’t know about my grandmother.”

“Ooh,” said Alexandra, “a mystery, then. I do love a good mystery. You’ll have to go and check it out. Might be a long-lost love. God, might be a long-lost relative.” She winked over her glasses and then removed them, rubbing gently at the bridge of her nose. “Anyway. Lovely coat. Lovely condition. I can give you two hundred and fifty pounds for it.”

“Oh.” Betty felt her heart plummet with disappointment.

Alexandra looked at her kindly. “Not much of a market for fur these days, sweetheart. I mean, you could hold on to it for a few years, see if they come back into fashion, but even then”—she shrugged—“it’s a good offer. I’d take it if I were you. Well, if money’s the issue?”

Betty considered the suggestion. She pictured Arlette standing in the doorway of the house on the cliff all those years ago, in her remarkable red shoes, looking at her with that inscrutable gaze, making Betty feel like she could be anything she wanted. She thought of the smell in Arlette’s boudoir, of the dull exotic light cast through half-drawn chintz, the sense of another time, another place, another world. The coat summed it all up: obsolete, out of fashion, but still alive with glamour. She would never wear it again. No one in her right mind would ever wear it again. Maybe she would keep it forever, keep it for an imaginary unborn daughter, keep it for posterity. But then she closed her eyes and imagined the coat on the back of a famous actress, lights, music, action, clapperboards, makeup artists, and dry ice.

“No”—she shook her head—“money’s not the issue. But I’d like to sell it anyway. If that’s OK.”

“That is OK, yes. Cash OK?”

“Cash would be great. Thank you.”

Betty’s arms felt oddly empty as she left Alexandra’s studio, as though she’d just handed over a child or a pet. Her shoulder bag, however, felt ripe and heavy with the twenty-pound notes that Alexandra had counted into her hands. And there, nestled against the palm in the pocket of her coat, was the paper with the mysterious address.

• • •

Rodney Gardens was, as Alexandra had suggested, very smart. Twin terraces of oversize redbrick houses with stucco pillars and tiled steps, each house immaculate.

Number 22a was in a house in keeping with the rest of the street. Doorbells were housed in a recently polished brass plate, steps were trimmed with potted palms, the door was painted mirror-shiny black.

Betty pressed the button. Peter Lawler. He sounded like he might be a financial adviser. Or a solicitor.

The intercom crackled, and the sound of an elderly lady’s voice emerged. “Yes?”

“Oh, hello. I’m looking for a Peter Lawler.”

“Who?”

“Peter Lawler.”

“Peter Morler?”

“No, Lawler. Peter Lawler.”

“Hold on, dear.”

Betty waited, and then a male voice boomed through the metal box. “Who is this?”

“My name is Betty. My grandmother was called Arlette. I found this address in her coat pocket. Along with the name Peter Lawler. Does he live here?”

“Never heard of him. Lawler?”

“Yes. Peter Lawler.”

“Rodney Gardens?”

“Yes, 22a Rodney Gardens.”

“Well, that’s us, all right. I’ve never heard of this other chap. Could be someone who used to live here, I suppose, though we’ve been here for over ten years.”

“Oh well, never mind. I’m sure it’s nothing important.”

“Tell you what. Try Flat D. Mr. Mubarak. He’s the landlord. He’s lived here since the house was converted. He’ll know.”

“Great, thank you. I will do.”

Mr. Mubarak answered his intercom so fast it was as though he had been sitting next to it, praying for someone to buzz. “Hello.”

“The gentleman at Flat A said you might be able to help me. Do you know if someone called Peter Lawler used to live here?”

“Peter Lawler?”

She sighed. She was growing tired of repeating the name. “Yes,” she said, “him.”

“Yes,” he said, “I remember Peter. He moved out a long time ago. Who’s looking for him?”

“Well, it’s me. I think.”

“You think?” He sounded partly amused.

“Yes.” She explained once more about the address in the coat pocket, and finally Mr. Mubarak said, “I’m coming to the door. Wait there.”

Mr. Mubarak was attired in a dressing gown and smoking a pipe. His hair was waxed away from his face, and he had deep acne scarring. He looked simultaneously suave and decrepit. His expression went from stern to lascivious when he saw Betty standing on his front step.

“Good morning,” he chirped, pulling his pipe from between his lips. “I apologize for my appearance. I am trying to save on laundry bills.” He beamed at her. His teeth were yellow and misshapen. “Now, yes, Peter Lawler. He moved out about ten years ago.”

“Do you know where he went?”

Mr. Mubarak smiled as though Betty had just asked him a suggestive question. Then he stopped smiling and looked a bit sad. “Ah, well, yes. Poor old Peter. Such a nice man. Always used to stop and talk with me. A loner, but a friendly loner, if you see what I mean. But he was plagued by demons.”

“Oh.” Peter Lawler was beginning to sound a little more interesting than his rather serious name might have suggested.

“He was a drinker. A big drinker. He was in hospital for weeks. His liver. Had to let the flat go in the end, and I never found out where he went. I think he might have gone to live with his mother. I suppose it’s also possible that he passed away.” Mr. Mubarak sighed melodramatically and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe.

“What did he do?” asked Betty. “I mean, as a job?”

Mr. Mubarak pulled the pipe from his mouth again and narrowed his eyes at Betty. “That is a good question. I do not know. He did not appear to do anything.”

“How old was he?”

“Hard to say. The drink had probably aged him. But I’d say he was anywhere between thirty and forty. Possibly a little older. He was a good-looking fellow, I’d say. Quite blond. Very English. But, you know, not kind to himself, if you see what I mean. A bit ragged. Around the edges.”

“Did he ever say anything to you about a family? Or anything like that?”

Mr. Mubarak shook his head. “No. Most definitely not. No family. No lady friends. No nobody. A true loner.”

Betty nodded. There it was. The end of the line. “OK,” she said, “thank you, anyway.”

“You’re most welcome. And please”—he pulled, with some panache, a business card from the top pocket of his dressing gown—“if you need anything else, anything at all, please do not hesitate to call me here. I hope you find what you are looking for.”

“Yes,” said Betty, taking the card and sliding it into her shoulder bag, “yes, thank you. So do I.”