Free Maestra by L. S. Hilton Page A

hard work I could make it, that I could get up there amongst them. I’d never pretended to myself that Rupert respected or valued me. But I had believed I had been useful, and that I was worth something. Pathetic.
    ‘I suppose you’ll be giving my job to Angelica?’ I hated the way it sounded, whining, bitter.
    ‘That’s not your concern. Please leave now.’
    I looked him in the face, knowing that my own was grubby with tears. I thought about how it would feel waking up in the flat and not getting up to go to Prince Street. The cool lobby, the reassuring grain of the banister under my hand. This had been my chance. I might not have got much beyond the gate, yet, but I was in, I was part of the world that I belonged to and every day I had thought I was climbing a little higher. I thought about how I would have to send out my CV and where that would get me. I had fucked it up. I had lost control, I had let myself want too much, been over eager, thoughtless, stupid, stupid . I had let myself stop being angry enough, had been tripping around like Pollyanna thinking that goodwill was everything and we could put the show on right here in the sodding barn. Rage had always been my friend, and I had neglected it. Rage had kept my back straight, rage had seen me through the fights and the slights. Rage had propelled me from my no-mark comprehensive to university; it had been my strength and my solace. For a moment I felt the white heat of it deep in my body and had a flash of Rupert’s bloodied face sagging over his computer. Come, Rage beckoned, just for once. Come on. My tatty briefcase had brass hinges on the corners; I imagined swinging it at his temple, but I wouldn’t need it. I could feel the ache in the sinew of my arms, in my teeth. I wanted to savage his throat like a dog. He watched me, and for a tiny second I saw a flicker of alarm in his eyes. That was all I needed.
    ‘You know, Rupert,’ I said, casually, ‘you’re a cunt. A fat-arsed, overprivileged, talentless, bent cunt.’
    ‘Get out.’
    I didn’t know which of us I despised more.
    *
    To make up, I took Rage drinking. Good company, Rage, matching me glass for glass. By the time James arrived at the club I was halfway down a second bottle of Bolly with another client and this time I was swallowing. I didn’t bother saying goodbye, just left the john looking surprised and plumped myself down next to James while Carlo did the business with the Cristal.
    ‘I think I might drink some of this tonight, if you don’t mind.’
    ‘Rough day?’
    I nodded. This wasn’t going to be a happy drunk. I felt cold and cruel and reckless. I raised my bowl in a dry little toast. Sure, I found him obscene, but we were drinking in the last chance saloon, Rage and I.
    ‘James. Let’s cut to the chase. How much would you be willing to pay to fuck me?’
    He looked bewildered, then rather disgusted.
    ‘I don’t need to pay for sex.’
    ‘Why? Is it less important to you than money?’
    ‘Lauren, what’s the matter?’
    If this had been a movie, it would have been a montage moment. A swirl of memories, plucky little Judith getting her degree, Judith plodding home late from work, sitting up over her catalogues, a tear sliding poignantly down Judith’s cheek as Rupert fired her, the wide-eyed recognition that here she was in a sleazy basement believing that this filthy old punter was her only hope. That Judith would have got up and politely walked away into her fabulous future because she didn’t need to compromise her integrity for anything. Yes, well. I was all over new fucking beginnings. This felt like my only hope. If this was what I was born to do, then I would do it properly. Me and Rage, we were going places.
    I let the tears I had been suppressing for hours well prettily to the brims of my eyelids, that wet hyacinth effect, a little tremble and bite on the lower lip. I lifted up my face to him.
    ‘James, I’m sorry. That was vulgar of me. It’s just this