Free Bloody London by Reggie Nadelson Page A

river, theypumped themselves up. He said, “I heard they’re trying more of an open door policy, you know, take in some new blood,” and she said to him, “That’s right, and I mean, how many other people can get references from a top fashion editor and a designer like Isaac?” She straightened her demure, dark brown, well-cut mink that she put over a plain black Jil Sander suit. Plain dark tights from Fogal, the alligator Manolo pumps from Barneys.
    â€œWe look great,” he said. “Why shouldn’t they want us?”
    Anyhow, the minute they got there, Lulu knew. Knew it was all wrong, the accents, the clothes, them. Too dressed up. She thought: I should have worn those stupid Belgian flats.
    There were four of them on the board: Pascoe, a woman with red eye-glasses who repeated everything Pascoe said, a balding lawyer and an old queen. Also Pascoe’s wife. She sat away from the others, poured tea and whiskey like it was a social occasion.
    They shook hands all around, hello, how do you do? It was, of course, all cash the lawyer whispered, and Pascoe gave him a dirty look like you didn’t talk about the money. But the lawyer ignored him, said to Gary – he talked to the man as if Lulu was a log – said they didn’t permit financing ever, never, not in five, ten years. Gary went dead white. Him and Lulu’s dad had worked it out; the old man had stuffed their accounts so they could ante up the cash, then finance later. Pascoe gave the lawyer another stern look and Lulu understood the lawyer was Pascoe’s stalking dog. Did the dirty work.
    Gary saw it all go up in smoke in front of his eyes. He ran to the can, didn’t get the door closed all the way. They all heard him puke.
    Lulu paused and I thought of Mrs Pascoe’s words. “Poor sod,” she’d said, “but he shouldn’t have lied to us.”
    â€œYou want me to go on?” Lulu said and I nodded.
    â€œIt was pretty awful. Before we got to the elevator, I heard Pascoe say, ‘Well, we were never serious about them, cash or not, were we?’ And the wife said, ‘Of course not, darling,’ and they all tittered.” Lulu took a breath.
    â€œI didn’t get to the good part yet. While Gary’s in the bathroom, Pascoe gets me to one side, offers me a drink, takes my hand, you know, that creepy way where it’s like your hand’s your tit and they’re touching you up? Then he tells me I’m too good for Gary, and why didn’t we meet up for a few drinkies. He said that, I swear to God.” She laughed, then raked her hand through her hair. “That’s how it is in New York fucking City, OK? It tore us apart, me and Gar. We split up a few months after.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œDon’t be. I got a much better place. You want to see?”
    We stopped in a shop off East End Avenue that smelled of glue and cloth. The two old men who ran it worked late, coughing, listening to a radio while one of them wrote up bills and the other cut upholstery fabric by hand with a razor blade. Lulu gave the cutter somefabric samples and he looked up, his mouth full of pins, and nodded.
    She led me out to the street, then glanced back at the tenement where the shop occupied the basement. “Poor bastards. They’re pulling these buildings down next year. That’s them for the rubbish bin.”
    The streets were jammed, people strolling towards the river. Every corner, the Koreans sold pumpkins alongside the other produce, shiny orange mountains of them. In the store windows, skeletons, witches, ghosts, politicians bared their fangs in rubbery masks. Our new national holiday, Halloween. Trick or Treat.
    We went east on 57th Street, crossed Second Avenue and Lulu waved to the guy who stood in the door of the liquor store, eyes shut, enjoying a smoke. We crossed First Avenue, and on Sutton, she turned right and stopped in front of the