Chapter Eight: "Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival." ~ CS Lewis
The salon does indeed ring to remind me of my appointment, but why they think that 8:30 am is a good time for that, I'll never know. At least the woman on the other end is cheerful without being phony, and makes sure I know which of their twenty-two stylists will be seeing to me, as well as informing me that I am also scheduled for a manicure-pedicure session after my cut. Well, that's nice of Holmes, is my first thought.
Except, after yesterday, my second thought is that he simply thinks I don't do a good enough job on my own, and need professional help with my grooming. God, going at me yesterday over how I cook my mushrooms! He's probably even specified what nail polish I'm to have. We'll see about that...
Over breakfast, I check my online newsfeeds. No more front-page buzz about the "Call-Girl Killings," just a scant article buried amongst some robbery reports. The last victim-I see her name was Regina Stone-was murdered little more than a week ago, but everyone seems to have moved on. I'm kind of disgusted at what a short attention span the public have these days. I am still in hopes that the killer will be caught; according to the little article, all three victims were definitely shot with the same handgun, but there still are no suspects.
As a last bit of business, I sign onto the escort's forum to catch up on the gossip, only to find that quite a bit of it is about me! I don't know who let it out, but it seems to be general knowledge that I'm on contract with "Mr. Tate" for a few months, and there are some just plain nosey-parker queries aimed at me. Mindful of Holmes's little speech about discretion and loyalty, I give some vague answers and simply ignore most of it.
On the forum, at least, there is still a lot of discussion about the murders of Calypso and the others. Everyone seems convinced that the killer is going to strike again, and they are all looking over their shoulders. Those that can afford it have started hiring private security to ride along with them after dark, and I am selfishly glad that I don't have to worry about it for a while.
A curious fact emerges from combing through the discussion threads: all three dead women at one time worked for the Agency. Calypso I knew about, because she was famous for quitting to work freelance, but the other two were a surprise. Tanya and Regina apparently both left the Agency a few years ago, or were dismissed; nobody seems to know for sure. A few postings insinuate that the two were breaking the rules about drug use on the job. It might sound odd to worry if a prostitute is using drugs, but at our level of performance it matters; you can't be a superior companion if you are completely strung out. It's one of the things our managers are very strict about.
It's all quit interesting. I bookmark the relevant discussions in case I want to delve more into them later. For now, since I don't feel like going in to the gym, I need to get out my mat and do my at-home workout.
When it comes time to shower and get dressed, I get a nasty surprise when I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror: I have one hell of a bruise on my shoulder! Bloody Holmes and his bloody teeth and bloody oral fixation.
I inspect the damage closely. The bite didn't break the skin at all, and the pressure must have been increased slowly enough not to register as too painful; I don't remember it hurting as much as it looks like it did. It's a horseshoe-shaped stain of various shades of vivid purple on the top of my shoulder, almost four fingers wide. Damn, it's just in the wrong place to cover with make-up, too, because it'll rub off. Inspecting the rest of my skin-where I can see-reveals a few more colourful spots, but nothing that is too obvious.
After my shower, I assess my clothing options. Covering this thing on my shoulder is actually going to be a problem. It's summer, it's warm—even sweltering hot, if we get lucky—and I like to wear as little clothing as possible, generally speaking. I have exactly one t-shirt with me right now that will cover the bruise, barely, and one skirt that will go with it, my leather mini. So, that's what I wear, and I add a fluttery sheer scarf around my neck, in case things shift around. I don't want to be sitting in a swishy salon looking like a victim of domestic violence; it makes people look down on you.
The forecast is for freshening winds and showers later, so I pack my compact umbrella along with my reader in a slouchy shoulder bag, and away we go.
The place is surprisingly busy, but then I don't usually hang out at Harrods on a Wednesday afternoon. Hell, I don't usually hang out at Harrods, full stop. The sheer size of the salon that takes up the shop's fifth floor is a little overwhelming, but the staff is properly obsequious, and my stylist is adorable. "Jaque", as her nameplate has her, is all of five feet tall and hops about like an exotic, trim little bird. She makes me feel like a gangly giraffe, all knees and elbows knocking around.
Jaque has a photo on her phone that was emailed to the salon for my appointment, and she shows it to me so I can visualize the cut I'm to have. It's obviously a scan of a vintage photo; the woman in the picture is about my age, and very pretty. She has high cheekbones, wide blue eyes, and light blond hair cut in a classic shoulder-length bob; from her clothes I would say that the picture was taken mid-60's. Jaque holds up the picture beside my face and raises an eyebrow. "Whoever she is, Miss, you look quite a lot like her. You could almost be sisters or something."
I thank her for the compliment, and we fall into talking about the 60's styles, and hair, and other things that you chat about with a stranger who will shortly be holding very sharp implements very close to your head. Casual banter helps you feel easier about that.
Jaque is efficient, and very good. She's also very discreet, because when she flips the cape off of me at the end, shifting my scarf and uncovering most of the huge bruise on my shoulder, she doesn't miss a beat. She whirls my chair around to face the mirror, so I can see that I'm uncovered and have a chance to fix it, whilst she busies herself with some imaginary lint on the cape. Good woman. I give her some extra on the tip.
I like the cut fine, it flatters my face nicely, and the change makes me feel charged up. I keep flipping my head around to feel the thick sheaf of hair swishing freely around my neck. I look around for Steen as I make my way to one of the manicure rooms, but there are no tall, handsome blond bears in sight, so I send him a text before sitting down to argue with the manicurist about the shade of polish. As I suspected, that has already been specified, and "Janelle" is reluctant to deviate from her orders. They are my nails, so I win, but Janelle makes me promise to absolve her of all responsibility for the consequences of painting my nails pretty shell-pink instead of boring beige.
I emerge from the manicure room with my hands and feet pleasantly tingling from the massages and all the other attention, but my head is a bit woolly from the fumes, and I almost walk right by Steen without seeing him. For his part, he does a double-take at my new haircut, and we burst out laughing at each other. I launch myself around his neck for the usual inappropriate hug, and he staggers back slightly from my assault.
"Hey! Careful, there, Angelica."
I stand back a little and give him an eyeing. "Since when did you get all weedy? Are you okay?" He looks pale to me, and has rings under his eyes.
"I'm fine, I'm fine, girl. Really. C'mon, are you hungry? I'll buy you a bite, I owe you."
"Here? The food here is great, but...let's go someplace a bit more reasonable for tea, okay? You don't have to impress me!"
"Naw, let's make it an occasion, right? C'mon." He takes me by the hand like I'm a little girl, and we go down to the food court, deciding on the Cafe and Creperie for tea. As we're being seated, my mobile goes off with a "number unavailable" call. Damn telemarketers. I silence and ignore it.
All the awkwardness of the last time Steen and I met is forgotten, and it's like old times again. He keeps the conversation focused on me, which doesn't escape my notice at all. He's avoiding something, but I'll leave it alone for now, I have so much to tell him.
As I relate all about my attempts to follow Holmes, getting chased around the city, moving into the Knightsbridge flat and everything that happened there yesterday, my phone goes off twice more in a row with "number unavailable" calls; the last time that happened, it was a salesman trying to pitch me a timeshare vacation flat. I'm seriously thinking that I should turn off the ringer when a text comes through: "Answer your phone. MH" Holmes. Damn.
"Steen, you know that thing that happens sometimes, when you are talking about someone, and then out of the blue they ring you?"
"Yeah..."
"Well, I'm going to have to take the next call, okay?"
"No worries," and he busies himself with pouring more tea.
The phone rings a moment later, and I answer right away. I'm guessing that Holmes is very cross with me, because his voice is exquisitely soft and pleasant as he tells me that I should expect him to visit at eight-thirty this evening, and to meet him downstairs. I am to be fully-prepared, he adds, because it will be a short visit; I take that to mean that he won't have time to play with shaving and such.
I answer, "Absolutely, I'll be ready and waiting for you. Hey," I add on impulse, "is Sherlock doing better? I hope he's behaving himself and on the mend again."
There is a pause, then Holmes answers, "He's fine. Thank you." And then he hangs up.
I put my phone away with a shrug, and glance up to see Steen frowning at me. "What?" I ask. "What is it?"
He shakes his head, and takes some more tea. "What are you trying to do to that poor bloke?"
Only Steen would call Mycroft Holmes a bloke, but I don't stop to discuss it. "What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said. What are you trying to do to him? The way you were talking just now to him, god, I could hear the emotional grappling hooks going out!" He makes his fingers into claws and mimes sinking them into my chest. "Crikes, from what you said about yesterday, he's got troubles enough without you trying to get your harpy hooks into him."
" 'Harpy hooks'!? What the hell do you mean, 'harpy hooks'? Do you think I'm angling to...marry him or something? Jesus, Steen, he's old!" I stab at my fruit salad with my fork, glaring.
"No, no, no, that's not what I meant. I think you're after him emotionally, you're trying to get him to like you. C'mon, Angelica, bringing him drinky-poos when he's sad? Really? That's you taking advantage of a bloke when his defenses are down."
"Taking advantage? How is it taking advantage to be nice to someone when they're having a bad day? That's bollocks."
"Think about it. Why were you being nice? You want him to like you, to be close, and if he won't give you intimacy willingly, you'll take it by stalking him, or wheedle it by manipulating him. I've seen you do this before, you know. You can't stand someone not caring about you."
"What's wrong with that? What's wrong with people caring about each other, as long as they have good boundaries about it?"
Steen rolls his eyes heavenward. "Good boundaries, she says. Like it's just so simple."
"I don't think it's that complicated, really."
"Isn't it? Listen, girl, people are complicated, so why would anything to do with people be simple?" Steen reaches over and takes up a whole sausage roll in his fingers.
"Lecture time, my Padawan learner, so listen up. Let's just pretend that this delicious roll represents relationships. Friendship, romantic love, whatever. The meat in the centre is the basic reason the people are together, the pastry is what gets laid down on top of that reason, gets added to it. So, whenever people interact with each other, every time they have an experience together, another layer of complication gets added onto the relationship, like this." He points to the coil of flaky pastry around the core of sausage in the roll. "The more intense the experience, the thicker the layer, eh? The layers, the interactions, pile up each time, they accumulate. If I'm going to put boundaries around this thing, this relationship, the layers are going to push against the boundaries, right?" He circles the roll tightly with his fingers.
"If the layers get thick enough, the experiences intense enough, the boundaries are either going to have to move, or I am going to have to really work hard to keep them where they are." Ridiculously, he quietly mimes wrestling to keep his fingers around the sausage roll. "So, after a while, it takes all the energy you can muster just to keep the damn thing from blowing up in your face, or from crumbling to bits."
Steen plops the mangled roll on his plate and wipes his fingers with his serviette, looking at me expectantly. I decide to play along with his silliness.
"So, Jedi Master Steen, how do we avoid the catastrophe of the sausage roll? Is there no hope for humanity?" I help myself to more tea, and a sausage roll of my own.
"There's only one way out that I know of, Angelica, and that is to take the take the 'together' out of it entirely. If you both have your own experience and there's no involvement, no layers get added because you're not in it together, no matter how intense the experience is. Each stays separate, the boundaries don't get shifted, everybody stays safe."
It's a silly analogy, but it suddenly makes terrible sense to me. "Yeah, safe, and alone, and lonely. That's not what I want out of life! That's not healthy. Listen, I know-" I reach out to grab Steen's hand. "I know how not to care too much. I know how to keep the boundaries with a client, I really do. You don't need to worry."
Beautiful green eyes peer at me steadily. "I've got my doubts, girl. I'm telling you, don't get involved. Isn't the money enough? Why do you have to go after the man's soul? You don't need that, and neither does he."
"Oh, my god, you are such a drama queen! Go after his soul? What the hell?" I lower my voice, then, because I realize that I've been getting louder. "So, why does he matter to you? How do you know what he needs, or doesn't?"
"He doesn't matter, you do! I'd hate to see you have a sausage roll blow up in your face," Steen gives me a flash of a white-toothed smile. "And I know the bloke because he was one of my off-and-on regulars for years—years, girl! You get to know each other, even if you don't talk much."
I shrug. "Maybe it's time for him to change. I think he's having a mid-life crisis, actually. He's the right age for it, and he has all the markers. One of my books says it's like an iceberg inversion; apparently, icebergs can just spontaneously flip, under the right conditions, and all that stuff that was underwater and unseen, suddenly all that is on top and in the open, and you have to deal with it. The person becomes possessed by the parts of themselves that they haven't allowed to live."
Steen shakes his head with an impatient noise. "Pop psychology garbage."
I give him a not-really-playful glare. "You'd better be careful, Steen Dijkstra! You're almost forty, you know. Any minute now you are going to feel the urge to express the parts of you that you've been suppressing! You're going to cut your hair short, get a real job, and marry a woman half your age, named Betty. And have five kids."
He gives me a look of mock horror. "Oh, god, no, just shoot me now!" Then, he's serious again, "But some people, Angelica, some people don't change so easily. They don't bend, they break, and it could get very messy if you're in the middle of it."
"Yes, Master Steen," I sigh. And change the subject, because I'm tired of talking about it. We chat for a while about the murders, but neither of us has anything new on that topic. I ask Steen about the package he left for me at Sara's house, and he looks mysterious and tells me that we can't talk about it here, that we have to stop by his flat, and he'll fill me in there.
I look around surreptitiously. "Are we being watched? Listened to?"
He shakes his head, but says "Probably not—but just in case, I think we should talk about it in private, okay?"
"Probably not? What have you got yourself into?" I demand, but he doesn't answer me, and I give it up for now.
Before we go to the stand to hire a cab and go to Steen's place, I make him go with me to choose out a few high-neck tops, and soon we are buried in a sea of racks in a quiet corner of the ladies' department.
"High-neck? That's a new look for you, Angelica. Poor time of year for it, though, and I think you'd look better in this-" he holds up a very nice blue-green top with a wide, low neckline. "Plays up those wide shoulders of yours, and that elegant neck, see? A high crew neck will just make you look chunky-monkey...whoa!" I have discreetly peeled back the scarf and shirt to show him the bruise on my shoulder. "Hey, I didn't know you were getting into the heavy stuff. I thought you didn't like pain?"
"I don't. It was an accident, it really didn't hurt at the time..." Steen peers closely at the mark with an air of professional interest.
"That is quite a piece of work. The pressure would have to be applied slowly and with a lot of restraint to keep from going through the skin." He shakes his head. "Damn. Does he bite you a lot?"
"Sometimes. He's a bitey guy, isn't he? You know, oral fixation."
Steen gives me an odd look. "Never with me. Never. Not once. I think..." He trails off, and gently covers up my shoulder for me.
"You think what?"
"Well, I think somebody has some pretty specific anger issues, and that's all I'm going to say."
I don't quiz him any further because I don't want to hear it, and instead we find me some things that I can wear and be socially acceptable until I heal up. During the cab ride to his flat, Steen gives me his take on aftercare for bruises and other job-related injuries, for future reference, and we both notice the cabbie's ears turning red a few times. We exchange grins, and it's hard to keep from laughing out loud.
Things don't get weird until we reach his flat, but then they go completely balls-up.
Steen's flat has been broken into, and ransacked. The place is an unholy mess, just torn apart. Shocked and furious, I whip out my phone to call the police, but Steen knocks the mobile out of my hand before I can dial. "Hey!" I shout, retrieving it from the floor.
"No police, for god's sake. Please, just let me deal with it. I don't think they took anything, I really doubt it."
"Why? What were they looking for? What's going on?"
"We can't stay here to talk. C'mon." Steen grabs my hand and pulls me out of the flat and down the stairs again. As we round the last landing and are nearly down, two young men start coming up, and block our way. Steen tries to push me behind him, back up the stairs, hissing, "Get out of here, Angel. Go!"
I look at the blokes standing there a few steps below us. They are weedy, greasy boys, dressed in dirty t-shirts and jeans, and look unarmed except for a nasty attitude. I'm nearly a head taller than either of them, and Steen is broader than both put together. I look at Steen, and back at the blokes. "No," I say to everyone in general. "No, I am not getting out of here. You," I tell the greasers, "you are going to move out of our way." I am so angry, I really hope they give me an excuse to do some harm.
One of them says something to the other in a language I should recognize, but don't, and he says to Steen in English, "We want the torch, Dijkstra, and we want it now, or we are going to beat it out of your poofy ass!" They both start to move up the steps; Steen shouts something and starts toward them, but I beat all three of them to the punch.
The stupid bastards are at the worst possible disadvantage they could be. I have gravity, reach, and surprise on my side. The first one goes over the banister before he knows what hit him. The second one has time to see my foot coming up to connect with his face, but not enough time to do anything about it.
Steen stands there, looking at me like I've sprouted horns or something, and then looks at the unconscious punks. I just shrug. "Karate brown belt. I should've gone on for the black, but I lost interest."
He shakes his head. "We...we really need to get out of here. I have to figure this out."
"How about your local? I could do with a pint of cider about now."
"That's as good as anything, I guess."
One of Steen's neighbors comes into the entry way, and looks from the body lying at the foot of the stairs to us with consternation. We both smile and give the lady a breezy wave as we vault the rest of the way down the steps and head out into the street. It's getting darker outside, and the wind is really whipping around, but the showers haven't started yet.
Steen and I make for the neighborhood pub, and take a table in a quiet corner by the back door. I am still shaking from the adrenaline rush, and suck down a cold cider in hopes that the alcohol will steady me. Steen holds his head in his hands, looking down at his untouched pint.
"It's time for you to tell me what the hell is going on," I tell him quietly.
He shakes his head. "The less you know, the better for you. I'm sorry you're here at all, I didn't think they knew where I lived. I thought I had heaps more time than this."
"How about you give me just a general idea of what's going on, then? Let's start with, what were they looking for in your flat? The one guy said something about a torch. What torch?"
Steen shakes his head again. "All I can tell you is that something fell into my hands, that some people want. It'll be bad if any of them gets hold of it, but I can't just destroy it, either, and I can't go to the police with it. Don't ask, I just can't. It won't matter in a few months anyway, so all I have to do is keep dodging them for a while longer."
"Well, it looks like dodging them just got a lot harder."
"Yeah, it has." He takes a pull at his pint. "Right. I'm going to have to leave the country for a while, that's the only thing I can think of."
"Adelaide, or Amsterdam?" I know he has family in both places, but not which one he might be able to run to.
"I'm going to do you a favor and not tell you. Like I said, the less you know, the better. We're going to leave here, and I am going to stop at a cashpoint to empty my current account, right? And then we'll go to the taxi stand, and I will put you in a taxi to get you back to your flat, and I will take one to the airport and get the hell out of here on the first flight possible. Sound like a plan?"
"If that's what you want to do, I'm for it. One last thing, though."
"What?"
"Does that package you left for me at Sara's have anything to do with any of this mess?"/i
"No, it doesn't," he says, but he looks away when he says it. "It's just a book I thought you might like to read. You're the only one of my friends who cares anything for books or reading. Hang onto it for me, though, after you're finished? I'll want it back."
"Sure. No problem."
We are both nervous as we leave the pub and hit the cashpoint, but there are no more followers. There is, however, a police car in front of Steen's building, so we make sure to take the long way around the block to get to the nearest taxi stand.
Steen tries to give me the fare for the cab back to Knightsbridge, but I tell him he needs to conserve his cash. I expect to just give him a quick hug and go, but he is suddenly very emotional. He holds me tight, parking his chin on top of my head. "You're like the little sister I never wanted, you know? Take care of yourself, girl. Just—I don't know, just take care. I'll contact you when I can. It'll come right, you'll see."
"Looks like we added a fat layer onto that sausage roll today, didn't we, Obi-wan?" I grin, and Steen gives me a wan smile and a kiss on the forehead. As he tucks me into the taxi, it starts to rain in earnest.
# # #
I spend the rest of the day and evening watching it pour outside, and trying to pull the pieces together about what happened this afternoon.
In the end, all I have are more questions. What could be so important about a torch? How would Steen get his hands on a torch that mattered, and why would it not matter anymore in a few months? I simply cannot make any sense of it, there's just not enough information.
When the clock flashes to eight-thirty, I'm curled up on the sofa, reading. I hear the front door being unlocked. It swings open, and Holmes steps through, umbrella-first, dripping. He quickly holsters it in the umbrella stand, and sets a slim briefcase down on the floor beside. He shuts the door and turns the deadbolt. I put down my reader and come over to lean against the stair railing.
"Hey." I say and fluff my my fingers through the even-cut bottom of my new hairstyle. It still feels strange to my fingers.
Holmes turns, and regards me, his face completely neutral. He's not cold and menacing, but he's not the guy who yesterday was sitting on the sofa fretting, either. This is another Holmes entirely. He smiles a faint, pleasant smile, and says in a milky voice, "Well, you had an exciting day with your Australian friend, didn't you?" The way he says "friend" it could be a swear word, and I'm completely unsurprised that Holmes knows something about what happened today; I'd be shocked if he didn't.
But he continues. "You have a choice to make, Angel. You can stay in my employ, or you can continue to carry on with your friend. You cannot do both."
That is completely unexpected. "What? Why? What's wrong with Steen...?"
"Oh, I'm sure that there's nothing wrong with him, per se. It's the company he keeps these days." Holmes leans forward, into my face a little, and lowers his voice dramatically. "Drug dealers, Angel. Importers of illegal substances. People that we keep a watch on, and your Australian is involved with them. I'm sure you understand my position."
Damn it, Steen! Damn it all to hell. "You're sure?" Holmes just gives me a look, a please-don't-be-stupid look. "Right, of course you're sure." I sigh deeply. "Well, he beat you to it, actually. He...told me today that I wouldn't be hearing from him for a while, that he was leaving the country shortly." I shrug. "So, I guess it's a moot point, isn't it?"
"Please see that it remains moot." He puts his hands in his pockets, and his tongue goes between his molars for a moment. "I would also like to remind you that your contract with me specifies that you will refrain from other liasions for the duration..."
"Steen and I didn't—I mean, we don't—we aren't involved that way, we never have been..."
Holmes gives me a faint smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "Certainly, of course. Just a reminder, then." His eyes are narrowed, pupils contracted. He doesn't believe me. Fine, whatever.
"Now, I'd like to clarify things for you, regarding your position here. I believe you have become confused." He rolls up on his toes. What now? "Please understand that you and I are not 'pals.' Your queries about my personal life are not welcome, and no more of it will be tolerated. Am I making myself clear?"
I bite my lip; I really shouldn't have asked about Sherlock on the phone earlier today. "It's a friendly business, but we're not friends?"
He nods emphatically. "Precisely. No more attempts to socialize, please. I've asked you before to be quiet."
What? Oh, come on! "That's true, you did. Then you sat over there with your newspaper and talked to me. So, am I supposed to just ignore you? What, exactly, do you want from me?" I cross my arms defensively. "Perhaps I'm not the only one who is feeling confused here. Sir."
He draws in a breath, with raised eyebrows, and I can hear the sarcasm gathering—then the tongue goes back between the teeth, and he looks down and away from me. He sighs. "Perhaps not." And I glimpse him again for a moment, the guy who fusses and worries and hugs like a lost child.
But the moment passes, and Holmes folds his expression back into totally neutral—however, he crosses his arms, and I wonder, does he know he's mirroring me? "Perhaps both of us need to make an effort to remain...businesslike. That, exactly, is what I want from you."
I nod. "I can do that, as long as you do. Just...let's not take it amiss if either of us need reminding now and again, okay? It's a very friendly sort of business. Easy to get confused."
"Yes. Yes, it is."
Then I give him a questioning sort of look, and wait. He glances upstairs, and nods to me. I start up the stairs, but I'm halted by a soft chime from Holmes' breast pocket, and he takes out his phone to look at the text with a sigh.
"Well, it's back to the office for me. Looks like you get a reprieve tonight."
I go back down the steps. "But you don't."
Shaking his head, he picks up the briefcase and umbrella, dialing his phone with the thumb of one hand. "No, I don't."
I open the door for him, and he goes out the way he came in, umbrella-first. The rain is still pouring down. Holmes shakes his brolly open and, speaking quietly on his phone, starts off down the cobbles toward the headlights of a waiting car.