Constance. Rosie Thomas

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      ‘Like I give a shit.’ He twisted her arm and she winced. ‘You’re not hurt, Russia, not yet. If you take things that don’t belong to you, then you’ll find out about being hurt. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘What do you say now?’

      ‘I am sorry,’ she whispered.

      Mr Kemal let go of her arms. ‘Upstairs,’ he ordered. He followed her up through the breathless house, made her unlock her padlocks and kicked open the door of her room so he could take a good look inside.

      There wasn’t much to see.

      She had sellotaped a picture postcard of a tropical beach to the wall beside her bed. She had bought the postcard from a street vendor in Tashkent, when she was out shopping with her friend Fatima. She had fallen in love at first sight with the image of silver sand and blue sea. Apart from that there were her few clothes hanging behind a curtain mounted across one corner, a two-ring gas burner and some tins and packets, a transistor radio in a turquoise plastic case, and her Russian–English dictionary lying open beside her plate and cup on the small table.

      As he flicked through her belongings the man made a dismissive tssshhh through his teeth.

      ‘Didn’t you say to me you’re not Russian?’

      ‘My father, he came from Novosibirsk. That’s Russia, okay. But my mother was Uzbeki and I was born in Bokhara.’ Roxana was recovering herself. She said quickly, in Uzbek, ‘I think you are Turkish, yes?’

      To her relief, she understood that he was finished with her. From the doorway he said, ‘Born in Stoke Newington, if that’s any of your fucking business. Now, keep your thieving hands off my stuff, all right?’

      Roxana nodded. She would make every effort never again to come into contact with Mr Kemal, or any of his belongings, until such time as she could move out of this house for ever.

      After he had gone she quietly closed the door and secured it from the inside. Then she sat down on the bed, her head bent and her hands loosely hanging between her knees. She could feel blood congealing on her shin and her arm throbbed, but she didn’t make the effort to examine her injuries. Once the initial shock and fear had subsided, what Roxana was left with was a feeling of dreary familiarity. Life had a way of repeating itself. To stop the cycle it wasn’t enough to be in a different place, even a different continent. You had to be a different person. You had to become a person like, say, the English boy. Noah. Big, and crumpled in a way that meant you were not worried about what anyone thought of you, always smiling, and completely certain that you had your rights and that justice was on your side. Roxana wasn’t so sure, after all, that she could make this much of a difference in herself.

      Half an hour went by and someone tapped at the door. She ignored it for a while, then heard Dylan’s voice. It came out as a breathy hiss, which meant he must have his mouth pressed right up against the splintery panels.

      ‘Roxy, I know ye’re there.’

      ‘I’m busy.’

      ‘What in the name of feck were ye doin’ with Kemal’s bike?’

      ‘I borrowed it.’

      ‘What was it, a death-wish?’

      ‘Go away.’

      ‘Listen, all right. I’m just askin’ about the job.’

      ‘I got the job.’

      He whistled. ‘Did you so? It’s good work, that. There’s good money in it. Easy work too, lap dancing. Waftin’ yerself around in front of a few boozed-up City boys.’ She heard his chuckle through the door.

      ‘Dylan, I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe.’

      ‘Yeah, right enough. See yer, Roxy.’

      Dylan needed to make himself different too, she thought. He didn’t know it, though. That was the difference between the two of them.

      

      ‘That’s it, people. We’re all through. Good work. Thanks very much everyone.’

      The first assistant scissored his arms in the air and Tara flopped back in her seat with a trill of satisfaction. The last shot for the third of the online-bank commercials was in the bag.

      The middle-aged cellist in the string quartet gently put aside her instrument. Connie saw that there was sweat beaded around her hairline, and the bow-ties and starched shirts of the violin and viola players had gone shapeless in the humidity. She thanked them for their hours of work, playing the same few bars of music for the commercial over and over in the afternoon’s heat, and paid them their money. The violinist carefully counted it.

      ‘We should be thanking you,’ he said formally. He was German. ‘If there is any more work of the same type, please be kind enough to think of us.’

      ‘Of course I will,’ Connie said warmly as they all shook hands. She couldn’t imagine the likely circumstances, though.

      She wasn’t sorry that the week to come would not be as ripe with crisis as the one that was just past. The main actress had barely recovered from her stomach upset, and her enfeebled state had led to rescheduling and hours of overage costs which Angela had had to negotiate with Tara. Relations had become strained.

      Then the agency and client teams had both shown remarkable and competitive stamina when it came to after-hours partying. The mornings-after had been difficult. One of the Australian crew members had entertained a woman in his room and had been outraged to discover the next morning that his wallet, laptop and MP3 player had vanished with her into the night. Connie had been called on to act as go-between with the local police when the stolen property wasn’t instantly recovered.

      ‘What did he expect?’ Angela sighed to her in private. ‘Tarts with hearts of gold only exist in the movies, you’d think he’d know that.’

      The musicians hurried with their instruments to the waiting bus. Their evening job was playing light classical pops in the main dining room of the most expensive hotel in Jimbaran, and they would have to go straight there from the set.

      Still in his costume, the handsome actor’s stunt double strolled ahead of Connie as she made her way to the service tent. She absently admired the smooth, oiled breadth of his shoulders and the way his bare torso tapered to the waist of his breeches, and then laughed at herself. One of the riggers whistled at her as he hoisted a grip stand towards the waiting trucks. In the service tent itself the Balinese catering team were packing away chairs and folding down the tables. Angela was standing there with her knuckles tight around a cup of coffee. She looked as if she hadn’t slept for a week.

      Probably, Connie reflected, she actually hadn’t.

      ‘Well done,’ Connie said to her.

      Kadek Wuruk stuck his head into the tent. ‘Hello, Ibu,’ he beamed. ‘Kitchen closed, end of shooting, but you like drink maybe?’

      ‘Yes СКАЧАТЬ